Simple Gifts
by J-Horror Girl
Summary: When a skeptical doctor tries a VHS to DVD transfer, all the copies of the cursed video go blank. Where has Samara gone?
1. The Autopsy

A/N: This story picks up a few hours after where The Ring leaves off. I'm using some stuff from The Spiral in it. Hope you like, please review! Also, the disclaimer. I don't own any of the characters from the books or the movies, and I'm not making any money.

Doctor Claire Winslow pulled on surgical gloves and adjusted her mask and goggles.

"Okay, Noah Clay. What killed you?" she murmured, as she picked up the scalpel and began. For the benefit of her micro recorder, she said aloud, "Noah Clay, Caucasian male, age thirty…" She paused. She was thirty-one. Whenever someone her age or younger came to her autopsy table, it made her shiver for a moment.

_Remember why you switched to forensic work. The dead are silent. They no longer suffer, they no longer want, they no longer hurt. The only mystery left is what killed them._

"Cause of death, as yet undetermined. Time of death—This can't be right." According to the chart, Noah Clay had died only a few hours before, but the corpse on the table looked like a 'floater', waterlogged and partially decayed. Yet there it was: that morning, he had been alive and well. _Something like Ebola?_ _A new virus or bacterium which kills even more swiftly and horribly?_

Step by step she narrated her discoveries. Removing his organs one by one, she analyzed their condition, weighing and measuring them. _He has smoker's lungs; how ironic. He died young from another cause._

His heart—She snipped the veins and arteries and freed it from his chest. As the one muscle which was always working, his heart should have been tough and strong. Instead it was as soft as a rotten bell pepper. Something had reduced it to a fist-sized lump of mush, something she had never before encountered. Taking up her scalpel, she took a sample of tissue, and prepared it for the microscope.

Every cell in the sample was ruptured. _Oh. Shit. This is a disease I've never seen or heard of. Where did it come from? How is it carried? Where did he contract it_? Stepping away from the lab table, she made a call she had always prayed she would never have to make. "I need to declare a biohazard emergency."

* * *

Rachel Keller was furious. Aiden had only hours to live unless she found someone to watch that tape. Just as they were going out the door on the way to Ruthie's with the tape, this team of people had swooped down on them, suited up just like in the movie Outbreak, and taken them off to here. Where ever here was, this featureless white room divided by a glass wall… Frustrated, she stood up and kicked over the chair. Whoever was responsible for this, she hated them. Hated them enough to kill them.

_This must be how Samara feels all the time._ That horrifying thought was like ice water down her spine. Carefully and calmly, she picked up her chair and set it upright again.

A noise behind her made her whirl. A woman had entered the other half of the room. She wore a white lab coat, a surgical mask and gloves, and safety goggles.

As she approached the glass wall which separated them, she pulled the mask down. "Ms. Keller, I want to apologize for the inconveniences you've suffered. I'm afraid the death of your ex has prompted a state of medical emergency. He died of what could turn out to be an extremely dangerous and deadly virus."

Rachel glared at the woman. She was about Rachel's age, but she was somewhat taller, her hair was light carroty-red, and she had the kind of pale, freckled skin which often went with it. Her eyelashes were colorless. _She has a face like a slice of oatmeal bread. And plain bread, too. Hasn't she ever heard of make-up? _Aware she was being petty, she struck out. "Where the hell am I? And who the hell are you?"

"You're in the local Center for Disease Control. I'm Doctor Claire Winslow. I'm with the coroner's office. I performed the autopsy on Noah Clay."

"Yeah? Well, you'll be performing one on his son before too long." _Aiden. How can I save him now? Who can I get to watch the tape?_

The doctor nodded. "You mean Aiden? Yes. He has an active viral infection. But you—you recall that the biohazard team took a blood sample from each of you?"

Rachel nodded.

"You had the virus—but it's inactive in you. Your system fought off the disease."

_A virus? How can it have been a virus which killed Noah?_ "Yes, I know—. Wait. You want to know about what killed Noah? You want to learn how to stop it?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Then I'll make a deal with you." She dug around in her purse, and pulled out Aiden's tape. "I know a lot, and I'll tell you everything I know—if you take this tape and watch it. Now. Right now. You have to tell me what you saw, if you want me to talk. And if you can, make a copy of it at the same time. You'll want a copy—once you know what I have to tell you."

"What?" asked Dr. Winslow. "This is a medical emergency—."

"I know. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you if this weren't important. Look. Aiden is just a little boy. If you watch this—you'll save his life." _And may God forgive me._

Doctor Winslow looked at the tape as if it were a poisonous snake ready to strike. "I—All right. There's a box for transferring items from one side of the glass to the other. I'll watch it. What is it?"

"I'll explain afterwards." Rachel opened the box from her side, dropped the tape in carefully, and watched as the doctor wiped the case with an antibacterial tissue. "And—be sure you're alone when you watch it." _Aiden. Aiden will live. I have to focus on that.

* * *

_

Next: Doctor Claire Winslow does the first VHS to DVD transfer of Samara's curse. How will that affect it?


	2. The Center for Disease Control

Claire looked at the tape as she took the elevator to the Center for Disease Control's AV room. To all appearances, it was a perfectly ordinary video tape. 'Aiden's Copy' was written on the label, and the little tab which allowed someone to record over the content was gone. _Why is this so important to Rachel Keller? I could just tell the head of the CDC she won't cooperate. But I did make a promise_.

Reaching the AV room, she turned on the television and moved a chair into place. _I wonder how long this is?_ She paused before she popped it into the combination VHS-DVD recorder unit_. She said to make a copy. If I'm going this far, I might as well go all the way._ There was a stack of blank DVDs by the recorder; she put one in and pressed 'record' at the same time that she popped the VHS tape in the other side.

Then she watched.

First, a ring of light. Then a burst of static. Blood swirling in water; Claire was reminded of a childbirth in a tank of water she had assisted with. Amniotic fluid and blood flowed out into a billowing cloud around the mother as she labored. _Was that the meaning of that ring of light—birth from the perspective of the baby?_

A chair, isolated in the frame. The frame went dark. Then several light lines darted through it. It took Claire a moment to realize the darkness was hair and the light lines a comb. Then a woman in her forties, seen combing her hair in a mirror. A flicker—the mirror at a different angle, reflecting a dark haired child. Then the woman again.

A caterpillar spun itself a cocoon, winding silk out of its own spit, writhing as it did so. A nail with a drop of blood—the Snow White fairy tale? _Mirror mirror on the wall? The queen sat by a window with an ebony frame, looking out at the snow while sewing. When she pricked her finger with her needle, she said, 'I want my daughter to have skin as white as snow, hair as black as the window frame, and lips as red as blood._'

A man looked down from a window, his face hostile. Birds swarmed over a horse carcass, tearing at it with their beaks, gobbling its flesh.

Black plastic over someone's face, suffocating them. An egg, rocking and fracturing as the creature within fought for its life and freedom. _Birth and death again_. A tree on fire. _The tree of life?_ The crescent moon. _A female symbol; the maiden, the virgin._

A ladder, which suddenly twisted into a spiral. _The DNA structure. Life again._ A finger being impaled on a nail. _Ouch_.

A mound of bread dough, filmed with time-lapse photograph, rising and swelling. A mound of maggots seething on meat. A mother robin stuffing grubs into the mouths of her greedy hatchlings.

A box of severed fingers, twitching. _Stick them in some ice! They can still be sewn back on. _

The woman in the mirror again—she turned to look straight into the camera, right at Claire. Her face contorted with anger, hate, and fear.

The window again, only without the man. A handful of feathers, blowing away in the wind. _This is an amazing piece of work, but what does it all mean?_

Dead horses on a beach, the camera pulling in for a close-up on one glazing eye.

The chair again, spinning. _Too much of that, and I'll get nauseous_.

The ladder, falling away. A ring of light, growing larger, disappearing into a disk of light. A woman, her face unseen, silhouetted against the light, her hair falling around her face, and growing longer and longer, until it became a rope ladder. _That's almost Rapunzel, only instead of helping her prince up a tower, she's looking at someone down a deep hole._

Then a well in a clearing in the woods. Something white appeared on the edge.

Then static.

Claire sat there for a moment before she shook herself. _Oh. My. That was…I don't know what it was. Powerful, that's for sure._ She stopped both the tape and the DVD.

Then her cell phone rang.

* * *

Rachel waited, impatient. _Please, let her have watched it. Please, God!_

"Did you watch it?" burst from her as soon as the doctor reentered the room.

"Yes."

"Tell me what you saw."

"It started out with a ring of light…"

As the doctor described what she saw, Rachel grew more and more confused. _That's not what I remember. Why should it have changed? Then again, the images on the tape were put there psychically by an angry dead girl, so why shouldn't they have changed?_

"The last image was a well in a clearing. Something white appeared over the edge, and the video was over. Have I held up my end of the deal?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, I was just thinking. I said I would tell you everything I knew, and I will. Even though it sounds insane." Rachel began. "My involvement began when my niece Katie died suddenly…"

The explanation took a while. "…So now that you've watched it, you need to make a copy of it and show it to someone else within a week. Please. Believe me."

Rachel couldn't tell by the look on the other woman's face if the doctor believed her or not. Doctor Winslow took a deep breath. "So that's how this virus is supposedly transmitted? By watching a cursed videotape and passing it along?"

"I did tell you it would sound insane."

"Ms. Keller, your story is very dramatic, and you tell it well, but I can go through and come up with real-world explanations for every thing you've said. To begin with, there's the virus. It exists. I've seen it under the microscope. It's shaped like a ring, or at least it is in its active form, in both Noah Clay and in your son Aiden. In you, it's changed shape, become a spiral. The ring-form can multiply, the spiral doesn't. That's why you're alive. It stopped attacking your cells."

"Aiden! Have him tested again. You'll see it's changed. He's out of danger now." He has to be. "And if you have yourself tested, you'll have the ring-form in your system."

"I might. And if I do, it's because I picked it up during the autopsy. We still don't know how it's transmitted. It might be as easy to catch as a cold."

"Then what about my niece and her friends?"

"I'll put in a request to have tissue samples sent here for study. You said the tape came from a guest cabin up at Shelter Mountain, and that the body of Samara Morgan was found in an old well underneath it. That's probably the source of the contagion. The humid environment of the well, a corpse to provide nutrients—almost anything could breed under those circumstances. Your niece and her friends picked up this virus there. You went there, caught it yourself, and passed it on to Noah Clay and your son. It has an incubation period during which it multiplies in the body, and it takes a week to build up to the point where it's lethal."

"Then why didn't Katie and her friends pass it along, too?" Rachel left her chair, placed her hands flat on the glass separating them, and glared at the doctor.

"The Great Flu Epidemic of 1918 killed healthy adults while infants and senior citizens survived. We still don't understand why." The doctor glared back.

"Then—then did you get a phone call? Right after you finished watching the tape?"

The doctor smiled grimly. "I did. That's the weakest part of your story, Ms. Keller. You should have coached that little girl better, because she giggled when I picked up, and she got her line wrong."

"What do you mean? Didn't she say 'Seven Days'?"

"No. She said 'Seven Weeks'."

* * *

A/N: So, why are the images different? Read, review, and I'll write more! 


	3. Three Points of View

Rachel was still furious when the Center for Disease Control finally permitted them to leave, which wasn't until late afternoon. _Doctor Winslow thought I was hoaxing her_, she thought, as the nurse led her downstairs to the room where Aiden waited for her. _She thought I got her number and passed it on to 'Samara', who got her lines wrong. And then that pissy lecture about how serious the situation is, and how I could be prosecuted! _

_Maybe she'll start believing me when the visions start._

_At least she watched the tape. Now it's her problem…God. How responsible am I for what happens to her? How far do I have to go to save **her** life?_

Aiden was drawing pictures in the waiting room when the nurse opened the door, while another nurse kept him company. "Hi, Rachel," he said when she came in, looking up.

She noticed with relief that he was drawing dinosaurs, not dead girls or wells or rings. "Hey, kiddo. Ready to go home?"

"She's your mother, and you call her Rachel?" asked the nurse sitting with him.

"I always have," he replied, seriously. "I think it suits her better."

She waited until they were outside and alone before she said anything "It's all right, Aiden. You're safe now."

"I know." He slid his sleeve up his arm to show her the spot where Samara's touch had burned him. The skin was clean and unmarked, as healthy as ever. "She isn't in my head anymore, either. Not like she was."

"Good. Did you meet Doctor Winslow?" She squinted into the sun, which was starting to sink down into the ocean. The sunset was purple, orange, and fuchsia, arranged in layers.

"Was she the tall one who looked like the Witch in the Chronicles of Narnia?" He had such serious, old eyes for a child.

"Um—." Rachel racked her brain to remember the movie. "Yeah. That's not a bad way to describe her. She was about as warm, too. She thinks it's not a curse, but a virus that kills people. I couldn't convince her otherwise, either."

"Why couldn't it be a virus and a curse, like waves and particles?"

"Aiden, I know you have an IQ of a hundred and fifty something, but could you explain that to your dumb old mother, who doesn't?"

"You're not dumb. Or old. You just have a lot on your mind. Some scientists think light is made up of particles, but others think it travels in waves. Why couldn't it be made up of particles that travel in waves? Why couldn't it be a curse that works through a virus."

"I'm afraid I'm the wrong person to ask. Anyway, however it works, she's going to find out for herself soon enough. She watched the tape. I told her everything. It's up to her now. There's something that has me worried, though."

"We're helping her again, and we shouldn't be." Aiden said, meaning Samara.

"Not that so much, as what happened when Doctor Winslow answered the phone. Samara giggled, and said, 'Seven weeks.' I can't help but wonder what could make Samara giggle—and what's going to happen in seven weeks."

* * *

Claire entered the CDC's lab. "Marty, what do have for me?"

A technician raised his head from his microscope. "Hey. Good call, Winslow. This is a strange one. The boy's virus mutated between the first blood sample and the second. I've never seen something change so radically, so fast. The tissue samples from three of the four kids who might have been infected first are on their way—the fourth, the kid who walked off the balcony, is going to have to wait for the body to be exhumed. I'll tell you one thing, if that Katie girl died of the virus, and the doc who did her autopsy missed it—his head's going to roll."

"Things do slip by people."

"If her heart was like that Clay guy's, then that medical examiner can kiss his career good-bye. I ran the sample you gave after you did the autopsy, and you're virus free, by the way. The consolation is that this bug isn't easy to catch. It won't multiply in the dish for me, and there's no clue yet as to how it's passed on."

"Thanks." Her phone rang. "Excuse me, Marty."

"Sure thing. The DNA structure of this thing…." Marty went back to his microscope.

Her caller was Andrew Strathmore, a special prosecutor with the District Attorney's office. She could visualize his face very well; he was short, blond, and boyish. About five years older than she was, he was cute, if someone was into hobbits, which she wasn't. "Claire? What's going on? The CDC and you are all over the news."

"Hello, Drew. Well, today I received a cadaver with a peculiar and deadly virus, the like of which we've never seen…" She explained what she had discovered while performing the autopsy.

"So is the city going under quarantine?", he asked when she was done.

"No. This virus isn't very contagious, and even if you get it, it isn't necessarily all that lethal."

"How is it transmitted?"

"According to Rachel Keller, via a cursed videotape created by a dead girl whose angry ghost kills all those who watch it unless they make a copy of it and show it to someone else within a week."

There was a pause on the other end. "Excuse me?"

"It's a long, long story."

"Too long to be told over the phone right now, I take it. Did you have lunch?"

Suddenly she was aware of how hungry she was, ravenously hungry. "No, actually, I didn't."

"Well, unless you have other plans, what if we meet up and you tell me about the cursed videotape and the angry dead girl over a meal somewhere? My treat."

"I—" Suddenly uncertain, she couldn't think of a good reason not to, not when her blood sugar was low. Besides, they had lunched together before, at least twice, and he had never shown any romantic interest in her. "Okay. How about Casa Rico?"

"Great! Meet you there at six?"

"Sure. Bye, Drew."

* * *

Across town, special prosecutor Andrew Strathmore hung up his phone and punched the air. "Yes!"

"Oh, lord." grumbled his assistant Kim.

His legal aide, Matt looked over from the filing cabinet. "What now?"

"I just made a date with the future Mrs. Strathmore."

"With who?" Kim was interested now.

"Doctor Claire Winslow. You remember; she was the expert witness in that murder case where all that was left of the victim were his gallstones. That was when I met her."

"Right." She nodded. "I remember. Does she know she's the future Mrs. Strathmore?"

"No, not yet."

"This is going to be fun." Kim predicted. "I feel like I should call the poor girl and warn her."

"Hey, thanks to my genes, I'm more like David Hyde Pierce than Pierce Brosnan. I can't _do_ tall, dark, and handsome, and when I'm honest and upfront, I get nowhere. I may be manipulative, but I'm sincere."

"This is going to be just when you bought your house, isn't it? Nothing held back, whatever it takes?" Matt shook his head.

Drew had bought a house the year before, a modernistic structure with views of both Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. He had fallen in love with it at first sight. Perhaps he was obsessed with it, but it was exactly right for him, and worth it. "I don't have middle gears, Matt. You know that."

"Do I ever." Matt muttered. "I can't place her."

"She looks kind of like that actress, Tilda Swinton. She played the Angel Gabriel in _Constantine_." Drew informed him.

"In other words, tall, pale, and a little scary looking." Kim put in her two cents worth.

"Tall, yes, but I would prefer to say she's ethereal and has a definite air of authority." Drew raised a finger.

"So she's taller than you?" Matt asked.

"Height doesn't matter when both of you are sitting down." She was four inches taller, all of it leg.

"Kim's right." Matt smiled. "This is going to be fun."


	4. Dinner

A/N: Hey, (knocks on inside of computer screen) any chance of some feedback? It's awful quiet in here…

* * *

Marty had more news for Claire before the day was through. "I've found out what's so strange with the DNA structure of that virus. It's partly human."

"Partly _human_? How is that possible?"

"Viruses will do that. So will other organisms. Mitochondria, the organelle in our cells which enables us to process oxygen more efficiently, didn't start out as part of our genetic package. They used to be bacteria, living independently. In this case, the human DNA is just filler. It doesn't do anything; it's like the spaces in between the words of a sentence."

"Hmm. What do you want to bet that human DNA matches the corpse they pulled out of that well."

"Claire, you know I don't bet on sure things. They haven't officially ID-ed the body yet, by the way. It's 'Little Girl Doe' until they can confirm it is Samara Morgan. But the Morgans did own the land before the resort company bought it for development, and there is no record of Samara Morgan, alive or dead, anywhere after about 1978. She disappeared off the face of the earth, and her parents never reported it."

"She wasn't missed, she wasn't mourned, and she wasn't loved." Claire said, her voice catching at the back of her throat. _You'd think I'd be inured to this sort of thing by now_. "And her parents, who are the most likely suspects, are both dead. Suicides, apparently. So there will be no earthly justice for her."

"Are you all right? You sound choked up."

"I guess I am, a little. Damn it all, it isn't as if I need to be reminded what monsters people can be to their kids."

"Hey! You're doing what you can. Don't break down. Go splash some water on your face, and go home. You did more than your job today. The world'll be there again tomorrow."

"Thanks, Marty."

"No problem."

* * *

When she finally got out of the CDC building, it was dark. Drew was waiting inside for her, and he greeted her with a brilliant smile.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," she said, while she thought, _It's a shame he isn't six inches taller. Not that I've been doing so well with the tall ones lately, either. How long has it been? It's September now—Can I really have gone over nine months without a date?_

"No more than five minutes." he averred.

"Shall I seat you now?" asked the pretty hostess.

"Please." She led them to a secluded table and gave them menus.

"Perhaps we ought to split the check." she offered. "I'm hungrier than I thought I was, and that way I won't feel awkward about ordering what I want." _Which is not to mention the roast beef sandwich and the pint of milk I put away in the mid-afternoon. Why am I so hungry?_

"Only if you break my arm first."

"Don't think I couldn't." she retaliated. "Seriously, though."

"I suggested dinner, after all. Order whatever you please, Claire. I'm sure your story will more than equal it in entertainment value."

They placed their orders and sat back. "All right. What does a cursed videotape have to do with a deadly virus?" Drew inquired.

"It's the strangest mix between fact and fiction. Fact because the virus is real, fiction because—you'll have to judge for yourself. According to Rachel Keller, who is a professional reporter, and therefore well-versed in blending fact and fiction, I would say—a woman named Anna Morgan murdered her daughter Samara by pushing her down a well. It took seven days for Samara Morgan to die, but that wasn't the end of her."

"Wait a moment. I heard about this last night, on the news. Rachel Keller and Noah Clay found the body of an unidentified child in a well under a cabin at the Shelter Mountain Resort. Noah Clay, of course, was your autopsy subject."

"That's why this is such a mix. There is a well, and it's presumably the source of the virus. The CDC has requested samples of the water for testing. The Morgans owned Shelter Mountain. Samara died, but her spirit remained, trapped in the place where she died, while her mother committed suicide, the Shelter Mountain was sold, developed, and eventually, a VCR was installed directly over the covered well. Somehow, despite being dead for well over twenty years, she created a video of disturbing images based on her life experiences."

"How old was she when she died?"

"Eight."

"That's awful. How much of this has been confirmed?"

"There is no positive ID on the body, not yet—but neither is there any trace of Samara Morgan after 1978. In her brief life, she was hospitalized in a mental institution, abused and neglected, accused of driving her mother mad and making horses kill themselves, and finally murdered."

"Abused and neglected?"

"Her father—the Morgans were her adoptive parents, by the way—brought both his wife and daughter home from the mental hospital, and then made Samara live in the horse barn, in a hayloft without heat in the winter or air conditioning in the summer, without access to a bathroom or running water, alone and unsupervised. The only access to the loft was via a ladder, which he could and apparently did remove, trapping her up there. Who knows how often he fed her?"

"Abused and neglected is right. Where was Social Services in all this?" Drew leaned forward, his brow creasing in concern.

"I don't know."

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't blame her if she did come back as an angry ghost. If I'd been made to live in a hayloft like that, I'd sure come back ready to kill people."

"According to Rachel Keller, that's what she did. After viewing the video, those who have seen it are supposed to have one week to live—unless they copy it and show it to someone else. Samara herself is supposed to call up and tell them so."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, I have." Claire ate a tortilla chip with salsa.

"And did Samara call you and tell you your days were numbered?"

"A little girl in league with Miss Keller did call, but she got her lines wrong. She gave me seven weeks to live, and she giggled when she said it."

"Kind of ruined the whole effect, huh?"

"You know it! It reminded me of the days when there was nothing more fun than calling random people and asking them if their refrigerators were running."

Drew laughed. "Still, it makes for a good story. Although under the circumstances, it lacks taste and appropriateness."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

The waitress brought their food, and set it down. For a few minutes, their attention was diverted, but soon it came back around to the topic at hand.

"Oddly enough, Samara is getting her revenge after all. The virus absorbed human DNA—her DNA, most likely. So when an individual is infected, Samara is ravaging them from the inside out."

"Hold on." Drew set down his fork. "I am not a hard sciences kind of guy, but I did take all the required courses, and I did quite well. If I recall correctly, viruses are like tanks. A virus invades a cell, like a tank invading a factory, and the DNA swarms into the cell, taking over its resources and stuffing it full of its own genes. Then it forces the cell to replicate the virus, which then bursts out in all directions to invade more cells. Now you're saying this virus is loaded with Samara's DNA."

"That's right."

"Does that mean Samara's DNA takes over? Is an infected person going to grow into a Samara-clone?"

Claire laughed. "No. For one thing, it wouldn't be a perfect copy of her DNA. It ages, just like every other part of the body. That's why there are more genetic flaws in the children of older parents, like Down's Syndrome. For another, the host's body wouldn't accept it, just as transplanted organs are sometimes rejected."

"That's a relief. Say, I'd like to see that video."

"Why? To save me from Samara' curse? Do you have a secret knight-in-shining-armor complex?"

"Me? No. You have me intrigued, that's all. For a con job, this seems unnecessarily elaborate. Although the story at the center of it, Samara Morgan's story, I find that tragic and pitiful. I've prosecuted a few cases like that." His face, so often expressive of lively humor and cheer, was, for a moment, somber and haunted.

"I've never seen you look like that before." She tilted her head and looked at him.

"Like what?"

"As if you were taking something seriously. It makes me look at you in a new light."

"Is that good or bad?" The moment was over. He was back to being the comedian again.

"It's good." She wanted to see that aspect of him again. "I've seen too many cases of child abuse and neglect myself. I didn't start out as a medical examiner. I went into medicine to be a pediatrician."

"What made you change your mind?"

"Practicing pediatric medicine. You see, of course I didn't have any patients at first, coming out of medical school, so I signed on to be a Social Services health care provider. It wasn't what I thought it would be. They sent me low income families—and foster children.

"I suppose some practitioners, some doctors, can treat abused children year in and year out, and not burn out the way I did—I burned out like a expended firework. It never ended, and the cases I saw—. Broken bones. Burns. Malnutrition. Shaken-baby syndrome. Sexual abuse. These vicious cycles, repeating themselves—abused children growing up to be abusive parents, older siblings abusing younger ones as they themselves had been abused. Finally I snapped.

"There were three little girls in this family—twelve, eight, and five. All three of them had sexually transmitted diseases. The twelve year old was pregnant. Her father was the father of her baby, too. The mother, she was a job of work. First she denied it, she said they were lying. Then she said they asked for it. Finally she asked, was her husband going to be arrested?

"When I said he was, she exploded. "What? How am I supposed to live? How'm I supposed to pay rent and put food on the table? He brings in money. They just cost me money!"

Drew made a sound of sympathy. That feeling, sensitive look was on his face again.

"That night, I signed up for forensics classes. The dead are silent, you see. Of course, I can't help them, but I don't know how much good I was doing as a pediatrician, either. There were just so many. I couldn't even make a dent in the suffering."

"I believe you did the right thing." He reached over and took her hand. "You had to make a choice—either stop caring for them, or—stop caring about them."

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a while. "So are you going to show me this video?" Drew asked.

"Why not? I have it locked in my filing cabinet. The video and the copy I made on DVD."

"Ah, so you made a copy! Then you do believe in the curse!"

"I do not!" she denied. "I made it before I knew about any curse."

"Yeah, right. I believe you…So when is a good time for me to see it?"

"If you're not doing anything right after dinner, we can go back by the office."

"Sounds good to me. I am at your disposal."


	5. Where Has Samara Gone?

However, once Claire and Drew returned to her office, the DVD copy refused to play on her computer.

"According to this machine, there are no files on this disc. That's never happened before, and I've copied quite a few discs," she said, popping it out.

"Perhaps supernatural forces and computers don't mix well." suggested Drew.

"Very funny. However, I still have the VHS tape, and the player is right down the hall."

Again, nothing happened. "This is getting ridiculous." Claire took the tape out and looked at it. "The copy-protection tab is broken, so it couldn't have erased. I didn't go through any strong magnetic fields which would have wiped it, either."

"That is odd. How about the DVD? Will it play on a regular player?"

"Only one way to find out."

It wouldn't.

"Now I feel bad. It wasn't mine, after all. I'm going to call Rachel Keller and tell her…"

Rachel got the call as she was going over Aiden's homework. "Hello? Oh. Dr. Winslow."

"Ms. Keller? I tried playing the DVD I made of your video, and it seems as though it didn't record. Unfortunately, when I went back to the VHS tape you loaned me, it's blank, too. I hope it wasn't your only copy."

"No, it wasn't, but—Hang on." Setting down the phone, she looked over at Aiden. _It doesn't seem as though the curse works twice on the same person, because I watched the video after Aiden saw my copy, and I wasn't reinfected. Still…_

"Aiden, I want you to go to your room, put the covers over your head, and don't come out until I tell you, okay? I have to make another copy of the video."

But the copy was blank, too, and when she tried the parent video, it had gone blank as well.

_What's going on now?_

"She isn't there anymore, is she?"

Rachel turned her head to see a small white figure standing in the doorway. It was Aiden standing there, a bedsheet over his head like an elementary schoolkid's idea of a ghost costume, but without eyeholes.

"Aiden! What did I tell you?"

"You told me to put the covers over my head and not come out until you said I could, and I haven't. See?" He waved his arms. "I can't see anything. I have to walk by watching my feet, so it's okay."

"That isn't what I meant. Do you know—do you know where she's gone?"

"Not exactly. I can sort of feel her like hearing something a long way off. She's somewhere warm." Aiden wrestled with the sheet until he uncovered his head.

"In hell, I hope." Rachel said sourly.

"Not hot, warm. Like bathwater."

"Somewhere warm. 'Samara, you've killed half a dozen people and ruined lives. What are you going to do now?' "I'm going to Disneyworld!'"

"No, it's still somewhere dark. It's just dark and warm, not dark and cold."

"Somewhere warm." she repeated. _Where have you gone, Samara? What are you up to now? And what do you want?_


	6. Saturday Morning, Day Eight

Saturday morning, eight days later.

Drew parked his car in front of Claire's condominium complex, and went up the stairs to her door. He kept himself from running, but he could not restrain his grin. After their date of the previous Friday, he had shyly asked if he could call her.

She blinked in surprise, but then she smiled and said, "Sure."

So on Tuesday he called to ask if she would like to go to an outdoor arts festival in one of the area parks on Saturday.

When she said no, his spirits plummeted, but he recovered when she explained, "I'm driving up to the Shelter Mountain area for two reasons that day. First, they're having a funeral for Samara Morgan at two, and second, to visit the crime scene."

"Her story must have affected you very deeply."

"It did."

"Would you like some company on the drive? In other words, may I be extremely rude and invite myself along?"

"Well, you certainly can be extremely rude." she drawled humorously. "As for inviting yourself along—."

His heart pounded while he waited.

"—I was planning to make it an overnight trip. I don't know if that would fit into your plans."

_An overnight trip out of town? And she **isn't** saying no_…

"My plans are extremely fluid." he replied. "In fact, I have to confess they amounted to 'Spend time with Claire Winslow if at all possible.' Had you made arrangements?"

"No."

"Would you allow me to make them? Separate accommodations, of course."

"Of course. All right." She said the words in a way that sounded like, "_And you expect me to believe you're not going to make a pass at me? Just try it. I might make a pass at you first._."

With that in mind, he put a box of condoms in his overnight bag. Just in case.

It paid to be prepared.

"Just a sec!" she called in reply to his knock. A moment later, she opened the door. She was wearing a charcoal grey skirt and a twin set in shades of moss, stone, and fog. She had used mascara and a touch of smoky plum eye shadow. It brought out the color of her eyes, which were too earthy a shade of green to be called emerald. He noticed now that they had flecks of hazel in them, and a ring of grey around the edges of their irises.

"Hello. Come in, I'm almost ready—or are you just going to stand there staring?"

"What? Oh. Ah, no. Thanks." He stepped in.

Her home was an apartment on the second floor. He looked around the living room as she disappeared into what he assumed was her bedroom. She evidently liked to read, as one wall was taken up entirely by bookshelves, with a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction. A shelf between the windows held Japanese ceramics, and there were plants flourishing at the windows.

A noise made him turn to another corner, where a pair of pet birds hopped around in a roomy cage. "And who are you guys?" he asked them, stepping over for a better look at them. They were small, with orange beaks and orange patches under their eyes. The rest of them were shades of grey, black and white.

"Bee-bee!" "Bee-bee-bee!" they chirped.

"I guess you two don't talk."

Claire reappeared. "They're Jujube and Jimminy. They're zebra finches. I got them a couple of years ago—they liven the place up a lot. It doesn't seem so empty when I come home…"

She picked her coat up from the sofa and slipped it on, then ran a brush through her sculpted bob. "Okay. I'm ready."

"Can I carry something?" he asked, as she collected her purse and a bag bearing the name of a prominent bookstore chain.

"If you're going to be so gentlemanly, my overnight case is right here."

"What about your birds?" he asked as she locked the door behind them.

"They'll be fine. I changed their water and they have plenty of fresh food."

On the way to his car, however, Claire suddenly stopped. Drew walked three steps before he realized she was no longer beside him. She stood staring at the wall of a building next to the parking lot, where a ladder leaned at an angle.

"Something wrong?" he asked, walking back to her.

"Nothing," she replied. "The way that ladder's leaning against the wall reminded me of an image on that mysterious tape. I'm sure I've walked past dozens of ladders like it in my life, but from now on every time I see one, or something else that just happens to strike a chord, I'll remember that video. Oh, I have directions to the town written down, by the way. Where are we staying?"

"At a bed-and-breakfast called The Riverbank. We're sharing a suite—two bedrooms, private bath. Both bedrooms have a panoramic view of the river, the rose garden, and the Cascade Mountains, and not only do they serve a three course breakfast featuring fresh and seasonal organic dishes, but they serve snacks upon arrival and in the evening as well."

"What a good idea." They reached his car, and he opened the door for her. "I don't know what's happened to my appetite lately, but it seems to me as though I'm hungry all the time."

"Doesn't that happen to everybody, in the fall?" He pulled out of the parking lot. "I have directions, too. Got them off the internet. How do they compare?"

She read over both sets. "Most of the way they're the same, but I planned mine according to the 'Fall Color' feature in Seattle magazine. It's supposed to offer the best viewing."

"Then let's take the scenic route." Traffic had them trapped at a light, and he took that moment to steal a glance at her. Most people, he knew, would think her ordinary looking. She was pale, her nose was beaky and her features angular. But she had such a wonderful smile—warm and goofy, in complete contrast to her normal air of cool professionalism.

"This is never going to work, you know," she said, startling him.

"What isn't? By the way, what's in the bookstore bag?"

"You and me, and don't try and change the subject. If you must know—." She drew from the bag a richly illustrated book of fairy tales. "It's for Samara's grave. Flowers seemed unoriginal and impersonal."

"Why fairy tales?"

"I loved them when I was a child, and certain things about her reminded me of fairy tales. Plus there isn't an unhappy ending in the book, which is so unlike anything she ever experienced."

"So there's a lot of meaning in your choice. Now, why are we never going to work? You see, I was thinking 'Supreme Court Justice and Surgeon General Winslow-Strathmore' had a nice ring to it."

She laughed. "What, you mean you don't have presidential aspirations?"

"Oh, no. Too limiting, and besides, think of everything you get blamed for. May I point out that you're the one who's avoiding the subject now? Why won't we work?"

"You're too short for me."

"Only if you think so. Look at all the six-foot models out there dating shorter men." He kept his tone light and amusing, to match hers.

"I'm not a model."

"I wouldn't want to date a model, so that's good."

They talked almost all the way up there. By the time they reached the scenic route, they had learned what each others favorite movies were, and were working on their earliest memories in childhood.

"I remember standing by the kitchen table, looking at a bright pink plastic cup I used to drink from. The light was shining through it—Drew!" She grabbed his forearm as he turned a bend in the road, and he slammed on the brakes.

Ahead of them on the road was a cluster of ravens tearing at something. Frightened by the car, they scattered and flew off as the brakes squealed.

A dead horse stared at them with its empty, gory eye sockets. The ravens were making short work of their meal. The horse looked as if it was accusing them of something. You're humans. You're supposed to take care of me.

"That's very strange," Claire commented.

"I agree. It looks as though that horse was killed by a car. You'd think people would keep better track of their animals."

"No. I mean the ravens picking at a dead horse. It was on the video. I don't mean it was similar. I mean it was _exactly_ like that video clip."

"Oookay," Drew responded. "Do we go on?"

"Yes," she said after a moment. "I'm a lot more willing to believe my imagination is playing tricks on me than that the universe is."

"All right." He negotiated the car around the dead equine and continued. "It's lucky we have the road to ourselves."

"Yes. I'm going to try to raise the local police and tell them about this. It's a driving hazard." She pulled out her phone.

"What? Who is this?" Claire said into the phone. "Oh. Look, I'm going to call Rachel Keller and tell her about this. This joke has gone on long enough. Don't hang up on me, young lady!"

"Who was that?"

"The little girl Ms. Keller has posing as Samara."

TBC….

* * *

A/N: I know there aren't many readers of my fic out there, but how about a review? It's discouraging not to have any reader response at all. Even if all you have to say is, 'Hi. This doesn't suck.' I'd be so thankful.


	7. Samara's Funeral

"Rachel? Why do we have to go to this, anyway?" Aiden asked, tugging at his shirt collar.

"Because my editor says my story about Samara needs closure." Rachel muttered as they entered the church vestibule. Tim, the staff photographer, stopped to get a shot of the exterior.

Her article, tentatively entitled, "The Brief Life and Tragic Death of Samara Morgan", was a masterpiece of lies interwoven with the truth. Nothing about curses, videotapes, or angry ghosts appeared in it anywhere.

Although she alluded to the dank, unpleasant atmosphere of Cabin Twelve, she never suggested a cause other than the humidity of the well underneath. Instead of Katie's death, she wrote that she became interested in the Morgans through the mysterious deaths of the horses. Her interest then led her to investigate the whereabouts of Samara, and Richard Morgan had told her of the murder before he committed suicide.

She just wished she didn't feel so filthy about it. All those lies…

The church was blindingly white inside. Part of it was the walls, but more of the whiteness was due to the flowers and the choir robes. Lilies, carnations and baby's breath covered the altar and the floor around the closed coffin, which was also white. On top the coffin was a photograph of Samara someone had found somewhere. The little face in the portrait showed no sign of what lay underneath, either literally or figuratively.

"Looks more like somebody's getting married than buried." Aiden whispered to his mother as they went down the aisle to a front pew.

"White is appropriate for funerals." she hissed back. The church was fuller than she thought it would be. Looking around, she recognized several of the police officers and emergency personnel who helped her out of the well the night she and Noah found the body—and to her surprise, there was Doctor Winslow, in a green and grey cardigan set. Next to her sat a blond man with a humorous mouth. _Great. Like I really needed or wanted to see her today. She is alive, and it's day eight, though. That's something. _

_But then Samara did tell her 'Seven Weeks.' _

The church organ sounded through the building, and the choir began "Bless the Beasts and the Children", a song about the helplessness and vulnerability of minors and animals. It was by the Carpenters, and she had never liked it. The newspaper photographer who came along with them took a few unobtrusive shots_. I hope he gets Dr. Winslow in one of his pictures. I want her to see Samara's curse in action._

The minister opened the service, and after a few scripture readings and a prayer, began, "I don't know if there are any present who knew Samara Morgan in life—?" He paused a moment.

"No? As it so happens, I did not know her either. Yet all of us have gathered here today, brought together by the human need to acknowledge the tragedy that was her all-too-brief time among us."

_He doesn't know the half of it_. Rachel thought.

"Perhaps you are wondering, as I often have, 'Why does God allow this? Why does the same God whose Son said 'Suffer the little children to come unto me' permit children to be murdered? These are the sorts of questions that lead to crises of faith."

_I don't think I've ever heard anything more ironic_, _considering what I know_. Rachel could feel a headache coming on.

The minister went on. "Consider a hand-woven tapestry. From the back, it is not possible to perceive the beauty of the design. Indeed, all that one sees is a messy tangle of random threads, some long, others short, seemingly without meaning or method. But from the front, one sees the artistry of the weaver's entire creation, the precision by which the colors were chosen, the grace and harmony the weaver achieved.

"Our world is that tapestry, and God is that master weaver. Our lives are the threads in it, and from where we stand, we cannot see what place we occupy in the fabric, how we contribute to the overall effect. Samara Morgan's thread is no more nor less important than any other; we are all vital to His design. Only from the Kingdom of God can one see the tapestry as God sees it. Only after our earthly lives are over can we achieve understanding. Let us pray."

There were several prayers, in fact. Then the choir sang again, a song Rachel remembered from a CD for children she bought when Aiden was quite small. "Simple Gifts":

"Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free. Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be. When we find ourselves in the place just right; Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained, To bow and to bend we will not be ashamed. To turn, turn will be our delight, Till in turning, turning we all come round right." It had a lively tune, one suited for dancing.

_Everything seems to have a circular theme in connection with Samara. Circles, spirals, turning, spinning. _

The service concluded. Next would come the interment in the cemetary.

"I'll have to get the names of everyone who donated their time or resources." Rachel said on the way to the ceremony. She turned to Tim. "Did you get some good shots?"

"Yes." The photographer replied.

"Did you happen to get the red-haired woman in the third row, the one sitting next to the blond man?"

He cycled through the pictures. "No."

"See if you can get one at the gravesite, if she's there. Aiden, honey, did you notice…anything?" What Rachel meant was, _Did you sense Samara?_

Aiden understood. "Nothing new. Can I see your camera?" he asked Tim.

"See, yes. Touch, no. Here."

"There's the minister. I have to go speak to him a sec…"

* * *

The sky was clear and cloudless, as blue as only a fall sky can be, and the sun poured down upon Samara's open grave. The undertakers had brought the wreathes and urns of flowers from the church. While the flowers were lovely, it was the other items which were the most touching: a couple of teddy bears, a pretty doll, a sparkly rhinestone tiara.

Claire added her book of fairy tales to the toys, and stepped back beside Drew. Looking around at the faces of the adults, she thought, _I know what they're thinking. They're thinking, 'I'm glad it's not my child.' _

The few children present looked lost and bewildered. A girl perhaps five years old asked her mother, "How did she die?"

"She fell down a well, honey. It happened a long time ago, before you were born."

"Why didn't her mommy miss her?" _Yes, this is a difficult one to explain._

"Her mommy…was sick, sweetie. She couldn't help her."

A flash of blonde across the grave caught Claire's eye. Rachel Keller and her son, accompanied by a photographer. She contented herself with a hard glare at the other woman. _I'm not going to say a word. Not here_.

All the rest of it was over quickly. The minister said the words which ritually consigned Samara to the land of the dead, and tossed a handful of earth over the casket. Stepping back, he allowed others to follow suit. Claire took a handful of the moist ground and crumpled it over the coffin.

Turning away, she found Drew holding out a handkerchief that she might wipe her hands.

She took it, thinking as she used it. _Is there something unusual about Drew, or is it just that every other guy I ever dated was a jerk? I've never been out with someone so thoughtful or so **nice** before. And it isn't as if my exes all were in the habit of belching loudly and scratching themselves. _

_I hardly know what to make of him. He doesn't seem to take anything seriously, least of all himself, but he treats me as if I were important to him_. The thought gave her a thin-ice feeling, precarious and fragile.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "You look a little lost."

"I'm fine. I was thinking, that's all. Thank you for the handkerchief." She folded it dirt-side in, and gave it back to him.

"You're welcome. Would you like to wait for the crowd to thin out?"

"No. My respects are paid. More to the point, I could use something to drink." They had stopped for a more than adequate lunch, so it seemed gluttonous to say she was hungry _again_.

"Then perhaps it's time to check in at the Riverbank. I'm sure our hostess will have refreshments for us. Then we can visit the crime scene, and after that it'll probably be close to dinnertime. "

"What a good idea." They walked back to his car.

_And another thing. He's good looking, young, successful, he has tons of personality, and he drives a Lexus. It isn't as if he had to be so considerate to get a date. He just **is**_.

"That blonde woman you were glaring at—that wasn't Rachel Keller by any chance, was it?"

"Yes, as it happens. I wasn't about to say anything to her right there. I have a sense of what's appropriate, even if she doesn't."

He grimaced appreciatively. "Yeah. Between that wild tale and the phone calls, she gets more tasteless all the time. Good looking woman though, in a generic, Barbie-doll way. Which is my way of saying I don't find her particularly attractive." He opened her door for her, and she got in.

"Then what do you find attractive?" She craned her neck to look at him as he walked around to his side of the car.

"An incisive intellect, the ability to tell a defense attorney he's an idiot without saying so in so many words, a smile that makes me think of Christmas tree lights being turned on, red hair, and long, long legs. You, in other words." Drew sat down and buckled up.

"All right. Now I know what's wrong with you. You're insane."

"Why?"

"Rachel Keller is at least two points higher on the attractiveness scale than I am."

"Not to me. Now, what do _you_ find attractive?"

"Me? I can't answer that right now. I…think my tastes are changing."

His only response to that was a wicked grin.

* * *

A/N: Thank you, _thank you_, **thank you** to Prank to the Man and Miss Janet for reviewing!

Next chapter: Freaky goings on at the Shelter Mountain Resort! Will Claire acknowledge that something supernatural is going on?


	8. Shelter Mountain

Tim cycled through the shots on his digital camera. "That's funny. I don't remember that. You know that woman whose picture you wanted? Look at this one." He held the device out to Rachel.

Rachel looked at the image. There was Doctor Winslow, listening to the minister by the graveside. A little girl in a long white dress was hugging her around the waist lovingly, her head resting on the doctor's stomach. Long black hair obscured the child's face.

A chill like a drop of icy well water ran down Rachel's spine.

_Samara_.

* * *

The Riverbank Bed and Breakfast was lovely. Claire looked around her room in the Cascades Suite, and liked what she saw: walls as yellow as a Bartlett pear, traditional furniture, and a queen-sized bed with invitingly crisp white linens. Opening her overnight bag, she shook out her clothing for the next day, a silk blouse and slacks, and hung them up. Underneath were items better suited for trudging around the Shelter Mountain Resort than the skirt she currently wore. Laying the khakis, a turtleneck and an old Aran sweater on the bed, she took off her cardigan and paused. 

I can't stand this any longer—not knowing if there can be anything between us.

Leaving the cardigan on her bed, she left her room and crossed the suite's sitting room. At Drew's door, she paused. _What if it just doesn't work? What if there isn't a spark?_

_Isn't it better to know now than later? _

She knocked.

"You're ready? That was quick. Give me five."

"That isn't precisely why I'm here. May I come in?"

"Sure." He opened the door. His shirt was open, and he was in the process of removing his cufflinks. His hair was towseled, and the light gilded it. "What's on your mind?"

"There isn't much point to all our flirting and getting to know one another if there just isn't any chemistry between us, is there?"

"Are you suggesting we should put it to the test?"

"More like a pop quiz, I think, to start out."

He blinked, and a slow smile spread across his face. "I'm certainly willing."

Their first kiss was hesitant and awkward, the second more certain.

Several minutes later, Claire freed her mouth long enough to say, "It's not that I'm not enjoying this, but time is flying by and I did want to see Shelter Mountain before dark."

Drew pulled back, breathing hard. "Not until you tell me if I have a passing grade."

"What?" Claire laughed.

"On the chemistry quiz."

"Let me review your performance—." He started tickling her. "Hey! No! Stop…All right, yes, you pass!"

On the drive up to Shelter Mountain, he said, thoughtfully, "I would like it if we got lost this trip. Not tonight, but at some point."

"Why?"

"There's no better barometer of a relationship than a sticky problem. Getting good and lost on a car trip is just the right kind of situation."

"Ah. I see. You may have something there. What about assembling a complicated piece of furniture with badly translated instructions?" Claire asked.

"Also good. As is putting up kitchen shelves."

"Or a plumbing disaster."

"An air-conditioning failure in July over the Fourth. Hey, we nearly did get lost. I almost drove past the place." He made a sharp right into the resort driveway.

The parking lot was shady. Autumn leaves drifted down, red, bronze, and gold, but Claire was unable to appreciate the beauty of the scene. As soon as she opened the car door, her heartbeat accelerated, her palms grew clammy and her mouth dry.

_What is wrong with me?_

Drew saw her hesitation, and inquired, "Something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. All of a sudden I feel—anxious. I don't know why. I'm not prone to anxiety attacks."

"Odd. Could it be psychological? Because you felt so strongly about Samara, I mean."

"I doubt it. I've been at crime scenes where I had to collect samples of brain tissue from the walls and ceiling. I can't say I enjoy it, exactly, but if visiting a crime scene was going to bother me, it would have started long before this."

"But violence directed at children does bother you. Perhaps that's what's different."

"Maybe…" She resolutely stood up and shut the door behind her.

As they headed for the check-in cabin, her anxiety deepened into fear, and she had to stop to collect herself.

"You're not okay." Drew stated. "Are you ill? That apple cider at the Riverbank—I read somewhere that cider can be tainted if it's not processed right."

"No, I'm not ill. I'm-afraid. I don't know what I'm afraid of, or why, but I am. I know it's not rational. All I have to do is look around, and I can see there's nothing to be afraid of."

"It's not you that's afraid," came an unfamiliar voice. "It's her. She doesn't want to go back to where she died." It was Allen---? No, Aiden, Rachel Keller's son, sitting on the cabin steps. He was intent on his Gameboy, so intent he didn't bother to look up.

"Not this again!" Claire groaned. "Where's your mother? Did she just leave you here?"

"She's up at the well with Tim. He's a photographer from the newspaper. I didn't want to go along, so I stayed here. The manager's inside," he jerked a thumb at the door behind him, "so I'm not alone."

"Did I hear someone mention me?" A man in a plaid flannel shirt stuck his head out the door. "If you're looking for somewhere to stay, I'm afraid that between the police and the health department, we're shut down until further notice. I'm just here as caretaker. Some woman doctor down in Seattle says there's something in the water up here that's killing people." He flashed them a grin. "Load of hooey, if you ask me. I've lived and worked here for years, and I'm fine."

"We're not looking for somewhere to stay, and I happen to be that 'woman doctor'" Annoyance distracted Claire from her fear. Taking her ID from her purse, she showed it to him. "I'm just here to look at the site. This gentleman is from the District Attorney's office."

"Oh. Uh, sorry. You know, the owners are talking about suing."

"Suing Doctor Winslow?" Drew cocked his head. "It would be more to the point, and more profitable, if they were to sue the Morgan estate. There are no heirs, you know."

"Huh. Well, I don't know anything about that…Cabin twelve, or what's left of it, is that way." He pointed. "They dismantled half of it to get to the well easier."

"Thank you." Claire's fear returned as she started down the path toward the cabin. _Nonodon'tgothererunawaygetaway_… She staggered, but caught herself.

"You look—." Drew caught her elbow.

"She's not going to let you go up there." Aiden had left the cabin steps and was following them.

"I am not going to get into an argument with you over the existence of ghosts." she told the boy. "I'm going up to cabin twelve and look at the well."

She turned and continued. Drew kept pace with her, casting worried glances up into her face. "You really don't look well." he said in an undertone.

"I've been better, but this is all in my head. I'll get over it once I've done what I set out to do. Besides, I'm determined not to keel over in front of that kid or his mother."

With every step, her fear intensified, swelling into panic. Cabin twelve was, as the manager said, half-demolished. Plastic sheeting shielded the interior from the elements, rippling in the breeze.

Then she saw the tree, and stopped. The sun shone through the leaves, turning them to bloody flame. _The tree. The burning tree from the video._

_Maybe…Maybe there's something to this, after all._

_No. _

She started walking again.

Her will alone kept her moving. She focused on one thing, the well. She knew there were other people around her, Rachel, who she did not like, Aiden, someone else, and Drew, her friend, almost her lover, but they seemed very distant and far away. Her blood roared in her ears.

The health department had encased the well in a plywood box, painted white and stenciled with warnings and the biohazard symbol. She could not even see it, but she knew it was there. She reached it and placed both hands on the upper surface.

With a wrenching feeling, like a bodily spasm, she was no longer there and then.

Suddenly it was no longer an autumn afternoon, but midsummer morning. The smells were different, the flowers bloomed, and birds sang. Even the temperature was different.

The well wasn't boxed in. It stood open, its heavy cover on the ground beside it.

She saw a woman, elegant yet gaunt in a severe black dress, her dark auburn hair bound up in a bun. Anna Morgan, alive and present. A humming noise to her right drew her attention: a little girl at the well side, her face as sad as a Kathe Kollwitz drawing, purple-brown shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes. She was bunching some of the flowers together, daisies, chicory, clover, and singing a little tune.

"It's beautiful here, isn't it, Samara?" Anna came up behind her daughter. Neither seemed aware of Claire. The child nodded, intent on her flowers. "Things are going to be better. I can feel it."

Then Anna Morgan whipped a black plastic bag over Samara's head, twisting it tight. The girl struggled and tore at the plastic, fighting death. Claire tried to reach out, first to push Anna away, then to help Samara, but it was no use. She was no more tangible than air.

Anna was larger and stronger. Sweeping Samara off her feet, she tumbled her into the well. "All I ever wanted was you." the mother whispered. The murderess wrestled the heavy well cover into place.

Another wrenching: Now Claire was Anna, walking up behind Samara. "It's beautiful here, isn't it, Samara?" she heard her lips say, while in her mind she heard, _Please, don't let her suspect. Don't let her read it in my mind._ "Things are going to be better. I can feel it."

Then the bag. Again, she could only watch as her own hands twisted the bag tight around Samara's head. Just a few seconds, and it will all be over. But the bag was ripping under the child's desperate fingers. _No! She can't survive, she can't live to tell/torment me any more! _

For the last time, she felt that warm, solid little body against hers, as she tumbled Samara in to the well. "All I ever wanted was you." she whispered, while her treacherously honest mind said, _No. All I ever wanted was a child. What I got was Samara._ The well cover was as heavy as it looked.

A third wrench, and she was Samara. The sun was warm on her face, and she drank in the perfume of grass and flowers, not horse manure and sweat. "It's beautiful here, isn't it, Samara?" her mommy asked, and she nodded.

"Things are going to be better. I can feel it." _Run_. Rooted as in a nightmare, Claire could not make her limbs obey. The bag came as a total shock, cutting off the air, digging into her neck. _Nomommydon'tIloveyoupleasemommy! _

Then the world tilted and spun. She was falling, falling—!

The water was freezing cold. She clawed the bag from her head in time to hear her mother's whispered, "All I ever wanted was you," before the well cover came down to block out the sun. The final thing she saw before blackness descended was a ring of light around the edge of the well. _Mommy!

* * *

A_

/N: Thank you again to Prank to the Man and Miss Janet for reviewing. Your encouragement keeps me going. 


	9. All Wet

Claire staggered up to the box covering the well, placed both hands on it, and immediately collapsed. By the time Drew reached her, she was soaking wet. Not with sweat; with water, icy cold water. Water flowed copiously from her clothing and streamed from her nose and mouth. _She's going to drown_, he realized with horror. _Right here on dry land_.

Grasping her around the chest, he began the Heimlich maneuver. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do for a drowning victim, but it was something he knew how to do. Water splattered on the ground; he did it again. She coughed and began to struggle in his arms.

"Wha—What?" she gasped.

"What the hell is going on here?" demanded the photographer.

Rachel Keller, kneeling in the mud by Claire's side, snapped, "Not now, Tim!"

Claire swatted the reporter's hands away feebly. 'No—."

"What did you see?" asked the other woman.

Claire hacked out more water. "S-Samara and Anna by the well."

Rachel nodded. "Samara was picking flowers and singing, right? The song went, 'Here we go, the world is spinning. When it stops, it's just beginning.'"

Claire took the next stanza. "Sun comes up, we laugh and cry. Sun goes down, and then we all die."

"That wasn't on the videotape, and I didn't tell you about it last Friday, did I?"

Claire began to shiver in his arms. "No," she said, so softly he could barely hear her.

The reporter nodded. "Do you believe me now?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not if you want to live."

"What do I have to do?" Claire fought to sit up; he helped her.

"I—don't know. I thought she wanted me to find her, to see she was buried properly, but I was wrong. Then I thought she wanted to be heard, to have her tape copied and sent out into the world. Although she spared me and Aiden, now the tapes are blank, and she gave you seven weeks."

"What does she want?"

"I don't know that either. All I can tell you is to do your best to find out."

"What's going to happen at the end of the seven weeks?"

Rachel Keller shook her head. "Again, I don't know. There's something here you ought to see, though. Tim, can you find that picture you took earlier? The one of the doctor here?"

"I might—if somebody were to tell me what was going on?" he asked pointedly.

"Later, Tim. please."

"All right, all right." He pressed a few buttons on his camera. "Uh—I'm getting the 'Low Battery, Powering Down' message."

"Don't you have another battery?" Rachel shook her head.

"This was the other battery."

"Great. That's just a little too convenient, if you ask me. The photograph showed Samara clinging to you, Doctor Winslow, around your waist."

"In a menacing way?" Drew asked.

"Even when she doesn't seem menacing, she is." Aiden remarked.

"What, Samara? You mean the dead girl?" Tim interjected. "Okay. This shit is getting too freaky for me. I'm going back to the car. Don't forget, I have the keys. I'm waiting ten minutes, no longer."

"Tim!" Rachel called after the man. "Look, Aiden and I'll be stranded. I'll e-mail you all I've got, and you can call me." She and her son took off after the photographer.

"I'm soaked." Claire said it as if she had just discovered it. "And I'm cold."

"Uh-huh. If you don't get warm and dry soon, pneumonia will get you before the ghost does. Let's go back to the Riverbank." Drew helped her to her feet, and put his jacket around her shoulders.

"It'll be ruined," she said, fingering the leather.

"I can buy another jacket, and before you say anything, I can get the car seats replaced too, if I have to. Come on." He led her back to the parking lot.

* * *

A/N: Just a quick one this time. Again, my thanks to Prank to the Man and Miss Janet. 


	10. Drew's Ghost

Drew cranked up the heater in his car, reasoning that he could sweat it out, while Claire was otherwise in danger of hypothermia. She was pensive for a while, leaning her head against the window.

"Are you all right?" he asked, finally.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with me that soap and hot water won't cure." She replied. "Drew…what happened up there from your point of view?"

"You went up to the well like you were on a forced death march—sorry, unfortunate choice of words—put your hands on it, and collapsed. Then suddenly you were soaking wet, and drowning from the inside out. For lack of a better idea, I performed the Heimlich maneuver on you, and it seemed to work."

"Then you saved my life." She smiled at him, weakly but with admiration.

"Maybe. What happened to you from your perspective?"

"I saw Anna Morgan murder Samara, three times. Once as an observer, once as Anna, then as Samara. It was as vivid as any of my own memories. I heard their thoughts, I felt what they felt."

Drew whistled. "Sounds horrendous."

"It was." She smiled without humor. "Remember how we were talking about a difficult problem would be just the thing to test our relationship? This is stranger than anything we had in mind."

"Ah, but if we can get through this and we're still together, it'll be obvious we're solid."

Claire took her time in their suite's luxurious bathroom. The well water wasn't just cold, it had a musty, unpleasant odor. It tasted even worse. When she was done, though, she felt as clean as she smelled. Dressing in the outfit she wore to the funeral, she went out to find Drew at the coffee table in the sitting room, stacking menus back into a pile.

"While you were in the bathroom, I made an executive decision. We have reservations at a place called The Farmhouse for dinner. According to their menu, their executive chef won the Best Chef in Washington last year. If you don't agree—."

"I think you had the right idea, and I'm starving." _Again,_ she thought. _Could Samara be siphoning nourishment from me? Is that why I'm so hungry of late?_

The Farmhouse was, as its name suggested, a converted farmhouse. It looked deceptively simple and homey for a place with such distinguished culinary credentials—glass instead of crystal, uncluttered tables, white linens. No gold leaf, no fake elegance, just a place the original owners would have recognized. Drew had requested privacy, and privacy was what they got: a room to themselves with a single table in what had been the pantry. The waiter gave them menus and a dish of little pickles, onions and olives to nibble on, then retreated silently.

After studying the menus in silence for a while, Claire commented, "I think I'll start with the lobster bisque. I need something hot to start off with. The salad with applewood smoked bacon and champagne vinaigrette looks good."

The absurdity of the situation got to her suddenly, and she looked at him over the menu. "I don't want to believe in ghosts. I've spent my whole life not believing in ghosts. I was the only girl in sixth grade who didn't freak out over Stacy's Ouija board, and I resent having to start believing now."

"I'm definitely going for the hot-smoked salmon appetizer, and I thought the salad with the pears and the Stilton cheese would be a nice follow-up. I have a ghost story of my own. Happened to me back in my freshman year of college. For an entrée, I think I'll have the roast pork with the dried fruit compote. What are you having?" Drew asked nonchalantly.

"Back up. What about your ghost?"

"I'm not going to start telling it until we both know what we want. We'll be too distracted."

"Tyrant," Claire grumbled. "I'm feeling carnivorous tonight. I'll have the strip steak with the peppercorn and garlic crust. To drink, I'll just have ginger ale. I've had enough water for the evening, and alcohol would only exacerbate this existential crisis I'm having."

"An existential crisis? What are your symptoms?"

"A mild headache, together with faint dizziness and a feeling that the world will fall apart around me at any moment."

"Sounds just like how I feel whenever I turn on the news." Drew's brow creased.

"There you go."

"I'll stick with ginger ale myself then. Let them think we're both in a twelve-step program, what do we care?"

Claire closed her menu. "How _can_ we talk like this?"

"I don't know about you, but I just open my mouth and words come out. Seriously, though, I think it's just that we click."

At that point, the waiter returned, and they ordered. As soon as the man was gone, Claire turned back to Drew. "Okay, your ghost story."

"Well, first of all, while this happened to me about half a lifetime ago, I wrote it down in my journal at the time. I believe my account of these events is precise and accurate."

"Understood."

"As I said, this happened during my freshman year in college. My school had a huge green, almost like the National Mall in Washington DC. There were buildings along either side, but in the middle there was only grass, a few trees, and a sculpture or two. The pathways were gravel, so when someone walked on them, their feet made a crunchy sound.

"The library stayed open until eleven. One night in December, just before Christmas break, I was there as long as they were open, partly because I was studying, partly because had a roommate with an extremely active love-life. I was kind of a late-bloomer in that regard…Anyway, it was a cold night, and the campus seemed deserted. It was quite a hike back to my dorm, but there was no wind chill and no snow or anything, so I turned up my collar and went for it.

"I hadn't gone far when I heard someone on the path behind me, whistling 'Jingle Bells' as they walked. Now you can call me 'Scrooge' or 'Grinch' or anything you like, but I had a part time job at the mall and I'd been listening to Christmas music since after Halloween, and that annoyed me. I glanced back to see who was ticking me off.

"There was nobody there. Never mind that I could hear them, both the whistling and the sound of their footsteps on the gravel. Before you say it was an echo off the buildings, or the sound was carrying from another area of the green, there were no buildings close enough for an echo, and no one else was on the green. No one. There was nowhere to hide—the trees weren't any thicker than a baseball bat, and the sculptures were way down by the main building, at least three quarters of a mile away.

"I stopped. The footsteps continued for two more paces, then they stopped, too. Claire, I saw where they stopped. I saw the gravel move!

"I turned and started walking again, fast. This wasn't like getting mugged. That happened to me twice at the mall, and I knew what to do about that. I'd take out my wallet, throw it as far as I could, and run in the opposite direction.

"The sound of the footsteps started up again, too. The whistling picked up as well. It sounded as though whatever it was, was getting closer. I told myself there was nothing to be afraid of, this was ridiculous, but while my brain agreed, my heart didn't. I broke into a run. So did my pursuer—but as it did, it stopped whistling, and I _heard it chuckle_.

"I tore across the campus and into my dorm. The stairs didn't slow me down at all, but when I got to the top, I had to catch my breath. Then I heard it come up the stairs behind me. I was looking right at where it should have been, I heard it, it was running, too…"

He paused. Claire, thoroughly absorbed, prompted, "And then?"

"All the noises stopped. It went dead quiet. Whatever it was, it chased me all the way across campus, up the stairs, and then quit. I don't know why. Maybe it was just doing it for fun."

"Was there known to be a campus ghost?"

"No. I asked around. No campus ghosts, no murders, no records of violent death at the college. My experience seems to have been unique."

"You're not just putting me on, are you?"

"No. I can show you the journal."

"Very strange." The waiter entered with their ginger ale and the first course.

"The question is," Drew picked up his fork, "what are you going to do about your haunting?"

"If it weren't for the seven week deadline, I don't know that I would do anything. I mean, I've been haunted for over a week now, and today is the first that I've noticed. Provided I stay away from Shelter Mountain, she and I seem to get along all right. Rejecting a lonely little girl-ghost who was mistreated during her lifetime would be cruel."

"Wouldn't there be a certain lack of privacy?" Drew asked. "How's your soup?"

She took a spoonful. "Delicious. She hasn't intruded much so far. But since it seems something extremely unpleasant is likely to happen to me if I don't do something by the time my seven weeks are up, I'm going to start my investigation with Rachel Keller's materials. She said she traced the Morgan family to their home on Moesko Island, and spoke to a doctor there, and Noah Clay went to Eola County Psychiatric Hospital. I gather they committed a few breaking-and-enterings along the way, and various other misdemeanors. I have several advantages they lacked."

"These advantages are what?"

"Time, doctor's credentials and ties to law enforcement. I can request what they had to lie and steal. My colleagues will talk to me under the umbrella of confidentiality laws, and the Morgan home on Moesko Island will probably be classified as a crime scene. If I follow up what I'm doing by adding to the official investigation or write a scholarly paper concerning an aspect of psychology, I'll be on the up-and—up."

"May I point out that you also have contacts, namely me, highly placed in the district attorney's office? Should anyone prove uncooperative, I can and will provide paperwork as well as more personal assistance. You aren't going to go through this alone."

The waiter brought their salads and cleared their empty plates.

"What about the supernatural aspects of the case?" Drew asked.

Claire winced. "I'd rather not dwell on those."

"It's not outside the realm of possibility that you could communicate with Samara more directly."

"How?"

"A medium or a psychic. A spiritualist."

"How would I find a genuine medium? No jokes about clothing sizes, please. Somehow I doubt the genuine article will be advertising in the phone book. Can I try some of your salad?"

"Of course." Drew transferred a forkful to her plate. "I like the walnuts. They go very well with the pear and the Stilton. Again, you have resources others lack. The bunco squad of the police department will have files on every psychic who works in the area. Such people are always under suspicion of being scam artists. Pick those who seem the least gimmicky."

"Good idea—and a good salad. Try some of mine. I'm reluctant to try exorcism, on the grounds that I'm not Catholic, and the practice is frowned on. I get the impression that they're only performed in countries and among people where psychiatry is unknown."

"Plus they're reputedly violent and don't work. You don't seem to be possessed as it is usually thought of, either."

"Well, I doubt the head swiveling and vomiting of pea soup actually happens on a regular basis. I would rather communicate with her than drive her away. Excuse me; I'll be back in a moment."

Claire found the Farmhouse's ladies room, and used it. While she was drying her hands, she thought she saw a shadow flicker across the wall behind her, but when she turned, there was nothing there.

* * *

A/N: Thanks, Prank and Miss Janet, for your continuing support! 


	11. A Metaphor

Claire returned at about the same time that their entrees arrived, causing a moment of confusion in the converted pantry. Once the waiter had bowed her into her seat and disappeared after placing their entrees before them as a bank official might present a safe-deposit box containing four hundred carats of flawless diamonds, their conversation resumed.

"Is the food doing anything for your existential difficulties?" Drew inquired.

"It's helping." She cut a bite of steak. "But I'm still in crisis mode. Ask me again after dessert. Butter and sugar taken in sufficient quantities will help almost any mood."

"Would talking about it help?"

"It might." She popped the bite into her mouth.

"I'm listening."

"All right." she said after swallowing. "Good steak. The chef is living up to his title. I've always believed that death meant the end, at least here on Earth. Whether there's a Heaven, or simply nothing, after life is over, I thought everything earthly like pain, wanting, needing, and hating was over as well. The existence of ghosts, and an angry ghost who wants to kill people at that, is upsetting."

"It could be argued that the very existence of ghosts is good news, because it means there is an afterlife." Drew ate some of his pork.

"In my case, that's overshadowed by the depressing notion that the afterlife is as polluted by hatred and pain as this one."

"You believe your little ghost friend is in pain?" Drew raised an eyebrow.

"Pain begets pain. Abuse inspires more abuse. Healthy, happy people don't inflict a week, or seven weeks, of mental torture on others before killing them."

"I see your point. Here's a question—do you see children as being born with a blank slate, or do they come into the world with predestiny stamped on them?"

"I believe they come in innocent. Children can become anything—it depends on what influences they encounter, how they're raised."

"I don't believe that. Not because of Original Sin, but because of what they're learning about genes. The more we learn, the more we understand about genes—well, the concept of Free Will goes down the toilet. People come with predispositions like a tendency toward depression or the genes for alcoholism."

"But the genetic alcoholic, provided they know it, can make the decision not to drink at all. The depressive can get treatment." Claire took a sip of ginger ale.

"That doesn't make it go away. It's like hair dye or colored contact lenses—cover it as best we can, the genes are there. I'm not denying the existence of the soul, but if you think of the soul as—as the liquid of your choice, and the body, genes and all, as a container, the liquid has no choice but to take the shape of the container."

"That's a good metaphor. What sort of container are you thinking of?" She laid a finger to her lips, tapping thoughtfully.

"Any sort. All sorts. Why?"

"They're all breakable containers. It's just a matter of time until they get smashed, right?"

"Okay. Yes, the body dies, but the soul remains."

"Let's suppose these are open containers, and they don't get sealed for the first twenty years or so of life. Stuff is going to get into the liquid, whether it drifts in from the environment or someone spoons it in on purpose. These substances can be toxins or vitamins. It doesn't matter when the container gets broken. Those substances are in there to stay."

"I believe I'm getting bogged down in metaphor." Drew frowned. "I have a specific instance. I know there's a book about the boy who was raised as a girl; the doctor in charge spun and twisted the facts to make it seem as though he was happy and well-adjusted as a girl, even though he wasn't. No amount of gender-reassignment surgery, frilly dresses, dolls, hormone shots or therapy could convince him he wasn't a boy. He was genetically male, and knew it."

"Yes, the Thiessen case, where the circumcision was badly botched." Claire replied. "It was used as a textbook case that how a child was raised mattered more than how he was born. But 'Brenda' was very badly treated by various people, in invasive ways that went so far as to be sexually abusive. But gender identity is a comparatively simple predisposition. Here's a more difficult question. Samara Morgan. She supposedly drove her mother mad, was so intractable her father made her live in the barn, killed their horses, incited her mother to murder her and then commit suicide. She then returned as a vengeful ghost to kill again.

"Was she born evil? Or did she become what she was as a result of bad parenting?" Claire looked at him pointedly.

"You led me right into that one."

"No, you painted yourself into this corner."

"I never said upbringing had nothing to do with how a person turned out."

"Now you're trying to have your cake and eat it, too."

"Perhaps this one will answer itself as our investigation progresses. Let's call it our case study."

Across town, Tim knocked on the door to the Kellers' motel room. Aiden answered it. "Hi."

"Uh, hi. Where's your mom?"

"Getting us dinner." The boy pointed to the street. "Here she comes now."

"McDonald's was closest." she explained as she joined them. "Hey, Tim. What's up?"

"I recharged a battery. Let me just say right now that I am never, repeat, never going out on assignment with you again. I don't care what it is. This is too goddamn much."

"Why? What is?"

"The picture of that woman, that Doctor Winslow. It changed. Look for yourself."

She handed the bags to Aiden and squinted at the tiny screen.

Samara was no longer visible in the picture; Claire Winslow was alone, head to foot. The picture was distorted, but it wasn't her face which was affected.

"Oh. My. God." Rachel said slowly, taking the camera from Tim. "I don't believe it…"

Rooting around in her purse, she brought out her cellphone. "Doctor Winslow? Shit. Voicemail." She waited for the beep. "This is Rachel Keller. Please call me as soon as you get this message. That photograph of you, it shows—Look. You better go get one of those home pregnancy tests and use it. I'm not kidding." She looked at the camera again. In the photo, Claire Winslow had a round, full, _pregnant_ belly.

* * *

A/N: Wow, Prank. That's quite a compliment. Thanks! And thanks also to Miss Janet and to CurlyQ. BTW, as far as I can tell, no alerts or review e-mails are going out of FF at all. Don't know why not. 


	12. Discussing the Big Issues

"Do you ever miss being a pediatrician?" Drew asked. They were working on dessert, an assortment of home-made ice creams.

"Every day." Claire smiled wistfully. "I didn't leave my practice because I wanted to. I left because I had to. Even in the abuse cases, I loved working with the children themselves. It was the adults I couldn't stomach."

"What, beyond the abuse cases, was the most challenging thing about being a pediatrician?"

"Working out what was really wrong my patients and treating it. You have to be a child psychologist as well as a doctor, because children's minds don't work the same way that grown-ups do. An adult will tell exactly where it hurts, what symptoms they've had, and how long they've felt that way.

"Some children are too young to tell the doctor where it hurts. That's one difference. A baby patient can't tell you when they first felt that lump or if a particular medicine isn't working. Even with older children, it's tricky. They have a poor sense of time, and sometimes they clam up—out of fear, out of defiance, or simply in pain. Or else they tell you what they think you want to hear, and it isn't lying on their part—it's more that the judgment centers of their brains haven't matured. They can't think from A to B to C."

"I've known a few adults like that." Drew reminisced. "It's a common mindset among criminals. Perhaps there are individuals in whom the judgment centers never mature."

"Isn't that the truth?" The doctor and the lawyer exchanged knowing glances.

Drew went on. "I can tell pediatrics takes true, in-depth understanding of children, as well as love, and you have both. Have you ever considered working with children on a smaller scale than a medical practice? I mean, by having children of your own and showing the world how it should be done."

"Yes." She smiled again. "I do want children of my own, and by 'my own', I don't necessarily mean I have to give birth to them or be genetically related to them. There are plenty of children out there already who need love without adding to their numbers. Perhaps I'd even do both—have a child or two and then add by adoption. But that would be once I'm married. It may be considered unfeminist or old-fashioned or politically incorrect to point out that children thrive best in a two-parent household where one parent is on hand as a care-giver while the other supports the family, but it's true. I was a pediatrician long enough to have it proven to me over and over. Hired care-givers are not the same as a parent."

"No," Drew agreed with her. "They aren't. I did notice how you didn't specify which gender the care-giver or the earning parent should be."

"Well, I'm not sexist. If my husband can nurture with the kind of depth it takes, I wouldn't want to restrict his role." She shrugged, half-humorously.

"That's good to know. I think I've always known I wanted a family someday. I mean, what's the point in a life if there are no people in it? What's there to work for and come home to? You can't really call that a life."

_There again he differs from the men I've been dating. Most of them let me know in subtle ways they wouldn't be dragged into fatherhood even if the only alternative was facing a firing squad._ "No, you can't call that a life, can you?" She sipped ginger ale.

"But I strongly believe in waiting to be sure my marriage is stable before starting a family. I've seen too many examples of relationships that were wrecked by the addition of children rather than strengthened. My brother Hal and his wife for example."

_Aha, here we get to the real Drew. Whatever he explains now is going to be important_. She sat up straighter in her chair and paid attention.

"Hal married Janice and within six months, it was obvious to everybody except Janice that he wasn't ready for the responsibility of marriage."

"Obvious how?" Claire asked.

"He borrowed my computer when he was visiting, and he left a lot of stuff in the browser that…How shall I put it?"

"Never mind. I can guess." She put her hands up to ward off a more explicit explanation.

"Let's just say it would not have done him credit even if he were a completely free and uncommitted bachelor."

"He was doing more than just looking at things other people posted, I take it."

"Uh—yeah. I told him it was not cool to be leaving that sort of material on a computer I took to work with me every day, especially not when he left pop-ups embedded in the hard drive, and perhaps he and Janice should go to counseling."

"His response…?"

"First he told me to mind my own business, and he would mind his. The next day, he came to me and admitted he had made a mistake, both in using my computer and in marrying Janice. She wanted to start their family, while he couldn't imagine them still being together in three years. I advised him to talk to her honestly about their future."

"I take it he didn't."

"No." Drew grimaced. "Rather than resolve matters through open communication, he chose to temporarily avoid conflict by letting, or getting, Janice pregnant."

"Having a child was easier than having a fight."

"In the short term, yes. In the long term—it took not just one child, but two before Janice caught on. Their break up was exceptionally ugly, we're still dealing with the fall-out, and it's my nieces Madison and Hannah who are suffering worst."

"As children always do. Hal's your younger brother, I'm guessing?"

"No. He's three years older than I am, which makes it worse."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, he's been a real lesson in what not to do. He is the most extreme example of poor judgment in my life, but I've seen similar screw-ups, albeit in a smaller way, among too many couples not to want to wait two years between the 'I dos' and the 'We're pregnant!'. Two years is long enough for the glow of endorphins to wear off and real life to set in."

_Hmmm_. _Real life isn't always that neat and tidy_. "Drew, there's still so much we have to learn about each other."

"That's all part of the fun."

"True, but we haven't even scratched the surface yet. What would you say your worst character flaw was?"

"Me? I'm perfect, can't you tell? Seriously, though…I would have to say I'm a bit of a control freak. Not in a bullying way, I would never do that. I can be manipulative at times. Like when I got you to go out with me last Friday.

"I knew you'd never agree if I called you up and said, 'Claire, you make me have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot whenever we're in the same room, and your smile melts my ear wax, so would you please go out with me?' Instead I asked you out in a friendly way to talk about your discovery of a new virus and turned my charm up on high, hoping that would work. Now we're eating passionfruit sorbet and spending the weekend together."

"I can say the ear wax line might not have sold me on the idea of dating you, but you would get points for originality_." Let me be honest with myself. I wasn't too keen on the thought of Drew being interested in me romantically, at first. But I didn't know him then._ "If you had worked your way up to that startling announcement, maybe you wouldn't have had to be manipulative. It's only fair I share what I see as my worst character flaw.

"I'm not very good at dealing with most adults on a personal level. It goes back years—I was called 'Carrots' for years in school, because of my hair, and I grew up to be extremely self-conscious. I was the tallest and smartest kid in my grade for years. I'm not bragging; it didn't make me self-confident. I grew up feeling very awkward and insecure. Girls like Rachel Keller were the worst—they were so pretty and poised. She set me on edge, and I—I'm afraid I returned the favor. Professionally, I have no problems, but when it comes to dealing with people socially, I come across as an icicle. I don't know how to change that."

"Well, I was the smartest kid and the shortest guy in my class, so in many ways, we're alike. I became the class clown to compensate. But I memorized Machiavelli in private."

_Why does that not surprise me? Machiavelli, the supreme manipulator._ "On a completely unrelated topic, and this may well prove how socially awkward I am, what would you do if we had a birth control failure, and I got pregnant?"

"Whoa!" His spoon landed in his ice cream dish with a clatter. "That one came out of the blue."

"It's a question I like to get out of the way before it can ever become anything but abstract."

"That's—very responsible of you, if disconcerting. I—would support you in whatever decision you made."

Claire nodded, thinking, _That answers that. Only a very naive woman doesn't know that when a man says that, what he really means is, 'It's up to you, but I would want you to have an abortion.'

* * *

_

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers! Prank, put like that, it is a squicky thought, isn't it? I'm seeing the reborn Samara as a clone, not a new being, much as if she were spliced together in a lab. Thanks, Miss Janet and Vampyro! Hope you like this one. Sorry I took so long, it was a rough week.


	13. The BogKing's Daughter

On their way out to Drew's car, Claire pulled out her cellphone. "Just want to check my messages," she explained, tossing her hair out of the way. All she heard was two dying key tones before a dribble of water ran out of the instrument down her arm. "What? Okay, why am I not supposed to check my messages?"

"Something wrong?"

"My phone just sprang a leak." She held it out so he could see the water dripping from it.

"Strange."

"I'll say. This is never going to dry out and be a useable phone again." She laughed. "If you were here in the flesh instead of just in the spirit, you'd have some explaining to do, young lady!"

"That's good." Drew said with approval as he unlocked her door for her. "There's nothing healthier than keeping your sense of humor under these circumstances."

"It helps a lot that you're here." She got into the car and buckled up.

"Hey, any time I can be your moral, or better yet your immoral support, I'm happy to oblige."

"Not too immoral." Claire commented. "Not on what is only our second date, after all."

"No? Aw, shucks. Can we still make out some before we retire to our separate rooms?"

"Yes." She smiled, and he pulled the car out of the parking lot, heading back to the Riverbank Bed and Breakfast.

* * *

That night, Claire dreamt she was sitting with a child close by her side, reading a story, _The Bog-King's Daughter, _from the book of fairy tales she left at Samara Morgan's grave. It was a story which had intrigued her as a child because it wasn't as easy to understand as _Cinderella_ or _Snow White_. There were no princes in it, for one thing, and no romance. "She was the Princess from the palace in Egypt. She had nothing to cover herself with but her long black hair…"

Claire read how the princess was betrayed by her friends, who left her alone in Denmark without her clothing, and no way to get home. "The princess cried, and her tears fell on the trunk of the old alder tree. It began to move! It wasn't a tree, it was the bog king himself. The one who lives in the bog and rules it. The tree trunk turned in the water, and then it no longer looked like a tree trunk. Its long branches were not branches but arms."

She read how the princess bore the bog-king a daughter who had her mother's beauty and her lovely long black hair, and sent her up to the breathing world in a water lily. A stork rescued the baby and took her to a Viking chief's wife, a woman who had no children.

"The Viking chieftain's wife was ever so happy when she awoke and found the little girl. She kissed and fondled the baby, but the child did not seem to like it, for she kicked and screamed and cried. Finally she fell asleep, and no child had ever looked lovelier than she did then."

Soon it became obvious that the baby was no ordinary child. "By day she was as beautiful as a fairy, but her character was evil and wild; at night she was an ugly frog with sad sorrowful eyes and sat whimpering quietly."

Her foster mother grew to love the ugly frog more than the beautiful child, because as ugly as she might then be outside, she was far uglier in the light of day, when she played every cruel and evil trick or game she could think of.

"To make her mother miserable, as if she enjoyed seeing the poor woman's terror, she would throw herself over the side of the well when her mother was nearby. The wretched woman would watch while, froglike, she swam in the freezing well water. Then, more agilely than a cat, she would climb the steep stone sides of the well and rush into the hall while her clothes were still dripping wet, so that she dampened the fresh leaves strewn on the floor."

Yet somehow as she read the story changed itself, although Claire couldn't tell how, exactly. The girl's dual nature was eventually reconciled, but how? Wasn't there a priest who figured in the story somehow? The narrative twisted around on itself…

When it was over, the child cuddling close to her asked, "Is it a true story, Mommy?"

"It's true in the way that the best stories are true, which means it's true inside people's hearts, even if it never happened for real outside of people."

"I really liked it. Please, Mommy, will you read me another?"

"Sure. Which one shall we have next...?" She looked down at the child beside her, and with horror realized the little arm crooked in her own was cold and gelid, grey with death, the long dark hair was matted and slimy. As Claire watched, the child's head started to turn from the illustrations in the book to look up into Claire's face…

She woke herself trying to scream, just before the curtain of hair parted. _It's a good thing Drew and I didn't decide it was time yet to share a room. _Claire sat up, resting her hand over her pounding heart, gasping for breath. _I would have scared him shitless._

A familiar shape on her bedside table caught her attention. She reached over and picked up a book. It was sodden, the pages wavy with water damage. Squinting in the moonlight, she realized with no surprise that it was the same book of fairy tales she left on Samara's grave.

"Sammie?" she whispered into the night, and waited. There was no reply. _Is it insane that I'm not only talking to a ghost, but giving her nicknames? I wish I knew what I had to be afraid of, when the seven weeks are up_. "Sammie, I wish I knew how to help you."

_But I don't…

* * *

_

A/N: _The Bog-King's Daughter_ is by Hans Christian Andersen, who also wrote _The Little Mermaid_ and _The Ugly Duckling_. It has some interesting parallels to Samara's story, at least in the first half.

Thanks, Drew…Ah, that remains to be seen. It's not going to be easy, even if Samara wants to be good. And what are you apologizing for, Miss Janet? You reviewed only hours after posting!


	14. Rachel in the Shower

Rachel was enjoying the hot, even water pressure in the motel shower the next morning and trying to think of nothing but how nice it would be to get back to her more-or-less normal life. Unfortunately, the revelation of the previous day—that Dr. Winslow was possibly pregnant with Samara, reincarnated in some form or other—would not let her.

_She should have checked her voice mail by now, but she hasn't called me back. I'm sure she'd call me once she got that message. That blond guy who was with her, her husband or her boyfriend?—where did he say they were staying? The Bankhouse? Maybe we ought to swing by on our way out of town… _

Without warning, a pair of supernaturally strong little hands seized her ankles and yanked hard. Despite the non-slip surface, her feet flew out from under her, and she fell heavily in the bathtub. Pain exploded in her, everywhere at once, leaving her limp and powerless in its wake. As she feebly began to try and move, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick surfaces around her, Samara's voice spoke directly into her left ear.

"Don't tell her. If you do, I'll make you all suffer."

Rachel froze, even as the warm shower rained down on her. "Samara?"

"Rachel, are you okay?" It was Aiden, calling from the bedroom.

"Samara, what you're doing, it's wrong. Dr. Winslow—."

She was talking to air, to air and to the water that splattered over her and down the drain.

"Rachel!" Aiden knocked.

"I fell in the tub", she explained. "Just a second."

Her toes still wiggled, that was good. She wasn't paralyzed. When she tried to sit up, using her hands to push herself, she was rewarded with a flash of pain only slightly less severe than the last. Through blurring eyes, she looked at her left arm. Not only was an enormous bruise coming to the surface, but it stuck out at an angle it shouldn't stick out at.

"Broken." she moaned. Her head hurt almost as bad. _Is my skull fractured?_ "Aiden, honey, you'd better call 911." All thoughts of Dr. Winslow were gone, driven out by the agony.

Later that day, once she was in the hospital, her arm in a cast, held over for observation due to a concussion, she thought, _How much did I really need to tell Dr. Winslow? Samara said 'Seven Weeks'. If that means it'll be seven weeks until she's reborn, the doctor will be able to figure out what's going on all on her own. Heck, if her pregnancy only lasts seven weeks, she'll be showing by the end of next week. She'll swell up like bread dough.

* * *

_

A/N: A very short one, I know, but I'll try and make the next one meatier. Thanks again to Prank to the Man and Miss Janet.


	15. Claire, Haunted

Monday brought the corpse of a elderly woman who'd died back in July, her body going undiscovered until her apartment building switched from air conditioning to heat. Her death, Claire determined, was due to natural causes, a stroke.

There was no next of kin, no friend, no neighbor, no one who had missed her for all those months. Her bills were paid automatically by the bank every months: had her body not started to reek, the building manager might not have had a reason to break in for years_. As terrible as Samara's life and death were, this is arguably equally terrible,_ Claire thought, as she sewed the incisions shut_. Ruthie Herman lived for eighty-three years, and left no trace of herself upon the earth, no one to weep or mourn for her. Except Ruthie herself bears part of the responsibility for that. She locked the world out._

Tuesday she spent filling out paperwork, the bane of her existence. Rachel Keller sent a e-mail with her research materials attached, apologizing for the delay. The reporter had slipped and fallen in her motel room's bathtub, breaking her arm and concussing her skull. 'If you got my phone message from the other night,' the email concluded, 'please disregard it.'

That was as intriguing a statement as any Claire had ever read, but unfortunately the salesman at the wireless store had wiped out all her voice mail when he changed phones for her. Rachel herself refused to explain, so Claire had to let it drop. The information in the attachment was useful however, and now she had a list of leads to pursue. She shared it with Drew; they had started talking on the phone at least once every day, if not more.

Wednesday the highway clean up crew found the body of a hit-and-run victim shoved in a culvert by the side of the road. He had been there over a week, and his corpse was in an advanced state of decay. In other words, putrescence and maggots.

_I ought to buy stock in Vapo-rub_, Claire thought, as she smeared a thick layer of it on her upper lip. It went a long way toward making her job more bearable. "Sammie, are you watching this? Here are the maggots from your video. They're an important way of measuring how long a body has been dead, did you know that? The life cycle of a fly is very specific. That's how I'll be able to pinpoint the day this man died." She could imagine a fascinated little ghost bending over the horrible object on the table as Claire took samples. "I wish I had some way to know if you were here listening."

She took up the bone saw, and started on the ribcage.

"In my job, maggots are just another part of my day. If you mean to show me anything worse than what I come across in the course of a week, you're going to have to get _very_ creative. Not that I'm challenging you, you understand." She added hastily.

She could imagine Samara's little giggle. "I don't enjoy cutting up dead bodies, not like I'd enjoy an ice cream sundae—okay, not that I want ice cream right now. After I've had a shower, maybe. But doing an autopsy has an intellectual satisfaction to it. It's a darned good thing nobody listens to my recordings but me. I wouldn't want anyone to hear me talking to you like this..."

From the blood on the man's clothing and the wounds, he had still been alive when his killer dragged him from the road and concealed him. He had bled to death slowly in the dry culvert, while biting insects carved out tiny chunks of his flesh and laid eggs under his skin. "Not just hit, but run over. Look at those bone splinters. My mother didn't understand why I would go into forensics, not until she started watching CSI. I'm sure she has a crush on Gil Grissom, but don't tell my dad that."

She continued to talk while she worked, partly to herself, partly to the spirit she only half believed in. "I hope Drew's office puts whoever did this away for a very long time. Once we catch them, of course." Hitting someone with a car was one thing, driving away was worse, but stopping to hid a living victim took a very special sort of callous selfishness, which was in its way worse than simple murder.

There were bits of plastic, glass, and paint embedded in what remained of the corpse's legs, and there were forensics technicians who could almost identify the make and model of a car from such scanty evidence alone. Claire could tell some things from the injuries of the initial impact, but not everything.

"Somebody is driving around a midnight-blue SUV, metallic finish, with a lot of mysterious damage to the front end. Or more likely they're hiding it in a garage, afraid to take it to a shop for repairs. Any reputable repair shop would recognize the kind of damage done by impact with a human body. Let alone the blood and hair… Almost done here. You know, this reminds me of when I'd help out with Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, working and talking with my mom and my Grams. Although here there's no giblet gravy…and I can't believe I just made that comparison. If I can equate talking to myself—all right, maybe you are there, but I can't see or hear you, and you don't respond, so—." Claire stopped.

For the sake of easy cleaning, the autopsy room had a concrete floor with a drain in the center. The sink at the side of the room had condensation dripping from the exposed pipes, which formed a little puddle. Water tension had kept it together for some time, allowing perhaps an ounce or two to bead up.

Now the weight of the water had broken the tension, sending a silver thread running down the floor, which was what had caught Claire's eye. Instead of going straight down the drain, the water took a sharp angle toward her, curving around her before joining itself once more, in a perfect circle. "Or maybe you do." Her voice faltered a little. "Sammie?"

Silence.

"Sammie, you're right to be angry with your mother and father for treating you badly. You're right to be mad at every adult who could have helped you, but who let you down or looked away. Being angry is human and natural, and God knows you have the right to be angry.

"But you don't have the right to hurt other people. You shouldn't hurt people, or kill them, even if death isn't exactly what people imagine it is. I was just a little child when you died—much younger than you are. Were, I mean. I suppose what I'm saying is, haunt me if you like. Please—please don't kill me."

"Claire?" She nearly tripped as she turned. Drew was at the observation window. "Maybe coming by at lunchtime wasn't such a good idea." he said through the intercom, "what with that body on the slab. But I have something here you'll want to see." He held up a videocassette. "This came from the Eola County Sheriff's Department. It's a copy of a tape recovered from a VCR in the Morgan house."

"What is it? The cursed video?"

"No, but I bet you're going to curse some while you're watching it. I did. It's from the Eola County Psychiatric Hospital. It's surveillance footage and an interview—with Samara."

"Just let me shower. It isn't as if he's going anywhere," She jerked a thumb at the corpse. "At least…I don't think he is."

Fifteen minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Claire sat beside Drew in the AV room. "I brought sandwiches," he said as he popped in the tape and pressed Rewind.

"Marvelous. I'm starving." She took out a paper-wrapped parcel. "Smoked turkey. Delicious."

"You remember that I have three nieces and two nephews?"

"Um—yes. Madison and Hannah are Hal's daughters, George has one son, Logan, and Lisa has Elizabeth and William."

"That's right. So I know something about kids. I said one word after watching the surveillance footage, and I want to see if you reach the same conclusion." He pressed play, and took a sandwich.

"All right. What else is in this sandwich?"

"Dried seaweed and wasabi mayonnaise."

"I knew it reminded me of sushi. It's good."

The surveillance footage played, hours condensed into seconds. Samara, dressed in a white nightgown, wandered around a small clinic bedroom. She climbed on and over the furniture, drummed her feet on the floor, kicked the walls. Her long hair streamed over her shoulders, unconfined and unkempt.

"I can't look at that hair of hers without wanting to brush it and braid it." Claire commented. "Was _nobody_ looking after the poor mite?"

"Apparently not."

The footage was continuous, showing a whole day. Nurses came and went. Samara had her dinner, and was tucked into bed. She did not sleep. Within ten minutes she was up and around again.

The screen flickered, and Drew stopped the tape. "Okay, what word springs to your mind?"

"Not so much a word as an acronym. ADHD. Classic case. She can't focus enough to sleep. A small dose of Ritalin and she'd be out like a light."

"Ah-ha!" Drew leveled a triumphant finger at her. "I said the exact same thing. Logan and Elizabeth are the hyperactive ones in my family. Well, maybe I am too, but there wasn't any such thing as ADHD when I was growing up. Not as a recognized condition."

"If a new patient came in with those symptoms, I'd write out a prescription and give the parents a suggested reading list of books on the subject. What on earth were those people thinking? Not that I blame them for not diagnosing her correctly. 1978 was almost the Dark Ages still, but that room—." She rewound the tape. "Look. No books, no toys, no diversions. Nothing for her to focus on. No wonder she was climbing the walls."

"Perhaps they were trying to cut down on her stimulation." Drew shrugged. "Not that I'm agreeing with them. I'm just trying to be fair."

"There's nothing for her to focus on, nothing comforting or familiar. Every read a story called 'The Yellow Wallpaper'?" Claire looked at him.

"Describe the story, and maybe it'll ring a bell."

"It was written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The narrator, a woman suffering from post-partum depression, is locked up in a nursery room by her doctor husband. The room is decorated with the eponymous yellow wallpaper. With nothing else to focus on, she becomes obsessed by the paper and goes truly insane. A great classic of both horror and feminist fiction."

"Oh, yeah. I remember. She hallucinates that there's a woman trapped behind the patterns, and ends up crawling around and around the room, pressed up against the walls." Drew nodded.

"That's the one. The best stories are true at heart, if not in the exact details. The lesson is, 'Provide positive stimulation for your patients, or they'll find negative stimulation on their own.' And 'The Yellow Wallpaper has been around for at least a hundred years."

"Ready for the next part? If you thought the surveillance footage was bad, this'll have you steaming."

"Roll it." Claire took another bite of sandwich.

* * *

A/N: Flushing? Prank, that would be just too evil, even for Samara at her worst. (shudders) Thank you, Miss Janet Vampyro, and OvertheMoon! I'm glowing. Four reviews! Squee! 


	16. Lessons in Psychiatry: What Not To Do

Claire leaned forward to watch as a man's hand appeared, holding a sheet of test patterns.

"SM 0015, Samara Morgan, hour fourteen." he said. There was a brief flash showing Samara sitting in a chair, wearing the same oversized white nightgown. The picture jumped as the camera was set down. There were Samara's feet, clad in heavy white stockings and shod with clumsy Mary Jane shoes. Then it showed someone placing electrodes on Samara's hands and temples.

Another jump, and now the camera looked down a long white room, the walls covered in shiny rectangular tiles. It looked as though it had been made with bricks of ice. In the foreground was a table with a television monitor, a glass of water, an ashtray, and a folder with papers. A man's hands and forearms were visible: it was as if the camera was on his shoulder.

In the middle distance sat Samara. The electrode wires made it look as though she were another electrical device plugged into a wall socket. Her head lolled to the side, as though she were too tired to hold it up straight, and her hair looked like the dark wings of an enormous raven hanging over her shoulders.

"So what is it that's keeping you awake, Samara? You must sleep sometime."

Samara said nothing. She did not respond.

"Samara? Let's talk about the pictures." He picked up the folder and shuffled through some black and white transparencies. They seemed to be images of toys; the details were not fine. "Samara? How did you make these pictures?" His voice held more than a hint of impatience.

She spoke. "I don't. Make them." Her voice came out slow and gluey. "I see—them."

"She's sedated to the eyeballs." Claire observed. "Probably Thorazine or Valium."

"Uh-huh." Drew said. "So doped up she can't talk straight."

On the screen, Samara continued. "And then. They. Just are."

"I need you to start telling me the truth, Samara." The examiner's voice was stern.

"Can I see my mommy?" Her anxiety and longing came through despite the drugs.

"No, Samara. Not until we understand what's wrong with you." The doctor's voice had the singsong, patronizing tones of someone who imagined he was good with children.

"I love my mommy." Something soft wrenched inside Claire's heart at that plaintive assertion.

"Yes, you do. But you don't want to hurt her any more, now do you? You don't want to hurt anyone."

It was the same way adults had told Claire, when she was a child, that she didn't really want to be a doctor, did she? She wanted to be a nurse. Boys grew up to be doctors, girls grew up to be nurses.

Samara's answer echoed. "But I do. And I'm sorry. It won't stop."

"Well, then," said the doctor, false friendliness dripping from his voice. "that's why you're here. So I can help you make it stop."

"He's going to leave me here." Samara stated, bleakly.

"Who?"

"Daddy." was her reply.

"They just want to help you." Claire gritted her teeth at the forced cheer she heard in his voice.

"Not Daddy." It was a simple statement of fact.

"Your daddy loves you." cooed the doctor.

"Daddy loves the horses. He wants me to go away." Everything she said had to fight its way to the surface through a fog of medication.

"No, he doesn't." The man's voice was syrupy.

"Oh, contradict her feelings and opinions some more, why don't you?" Claire snarled.

"But _he_ doesn't know." Now Samara's voice took on a chill. This was the part of her which toyed with her victims for a week before she killed them.

"He doesn't know what, Samara?"

Abruptly the video turned to static.

"That's it." said Drew, turning off the tape. "Comments?"

Claire took a deep breath. "I don't know where to begin. Children, however sick, don't belong in a psychiatric facility for adults. Their needs are too different. First of all, a responsible professional doesn't sedate an eight year old so heavily that she slurs her words when she talks.

"Second, the electrodes. They're invasive and scary. When I had to do EEGs on my patients, I put colorful stickers on the electrodes to make them less like the suckers of some alien squid. I'm sorry, I know I'm ranting and lecturing, but I have to do something to relieve my feelings."

As Drew had already seen the interview, he had watched Claire's face more than the TV screen. The play of her thoughts and emotions interested him a great deal, so he was wise enough to nod and say, "That's okay. Go right ahead."

"Then they're conducting this interview in a room that looks like a meat locker in a processing plant. For either the doctor or the patient to get anything out of a session, it needs to be held in a therapeutic environment, somewhere the patient can feel relaxed and safe. That holds true for adults just as much as for children."

"I agree; all that room needs is a side of beef or two hanging from the ceiling. When I picture a therapist's office, I think of nice quiet colors, overstuffed furniture, a few plants, maybe an aquarium or a noise machine with ocean waves in the background."

Claire nodded. "You get the idea, and you're not even in the field. When you're working with children, the room should be more like a playroom, with dolls, stuffed animals and art supplies. They aren't just toys; for a pediatric psychiatrist, they're tools.

"Questioning a child Samara's age directly can be like trying to pick up a drop of mercury with your fingers—the real truth is elusive and fragmentary. Going about it indirectly is a much better way of finding out what's wrong.

"A child psychiatrist will usually have a two way mirror for observation, If there has to be a video camera, that's where it would go. You'd bring the child to the room and let them get acclimated to it first, giving them a chance to get comfortable and take an interest in the toys, while watching them through the mirror. Then when the therapist enters, I'd—I mean, they would engage the child in simple play for a while, to build a relationship. Then you ask them to draw a picture of their family—or to play house with the dolls."

"How does that tell you anything?" Drew asked.

"Once they have a doll family together, it's easy to prompt them to reenact their family life through the dolls. Asking 'How does your Daddy act at home?' may get you no more than a shrug. Saying, 'I'll be Sally and you'll be Daddy. You're coming home from work, and I'm watching TV.' will get you a slice out of the child's real life. Occasionally they'll give you a scene out of their favorite movie instead, but that's rare.

"That's the last thing. That therapist's attitude. He was patronizing, he contradicted her and invalidated her thoughts and feelings, and worst of all, he didn't listen to her.

"That stupid son-of-a-bitch would have learned more about Samara by getting down on the floor and playing with her for half an hour than in a hundred sessions like that one. I have never come across a professional who was so tone-deaf to children." Claire finished.

Drew sat back in his chair and spread his hands. "So whatever happened to Samara before and after Eola Psychiatric Hospital, while she was there she had an incompetent asshole for a therapist, one who only made things worse.

"Claire, I think you missed your calling. You didn't miss it by much, but you missed it. You should have gone into pediatric psychiatry. I've been listening to you and watching you. Not only do you know the field, but you're passionate about it. Hell, you're trying to help a child who isn't even alive anymore.

"You should have a therapy room like the one you've described, and you should be treating children's minds rather than their bodies. I think that's what bothered you most about practicing pediatrics—you were only fixing what was wrong on the outside. You weren't doing anything to help them in the long-term."

"You think so?"

"I believe you should consider it."

"Well," Claire said after a moment's reflection, "I don't know how much longer I can keep on doing autopsies. I find myself wondering if my subjects' ghosts are hanging around, watching me. But Drew, that video. I nearly cried when Sammie said, 'I love my mommy', knowing what happened."

"That _was_ rough. You're calling her 'Sammie'?"

"Yes. I've started talking to her." Claire spread her hands, then pressed them to her temples and shook her head, looking at her lap. "I know how it sounds, you don't have to tell me."

"Does she answer?"

"Sometimes, but not in words." Claire explained about the circle of water on the floor.

"Hey, it's me you're talking to, the guy who performed the Heimlich maneuver on you when you were drowning. You're preaching to the choir. Go ahead and talk to her. What's your next step?"

"I'm going to contact Eola Psychiatric, and set up an appointment to go over Anna and Samara's case histories. It's possible there may be some staff who were there at the time, someone who remembers them. And I truly hope the doctor who conducted that session is still alive, because I want to tell him what I think of him."

* * *

A/N: Thank you, Vampyro. That's a wonderful compliment. I've tried to get the details right, and to be entertaining, too. Over the moon, here you are! I hope one day you'll get the courage to see the movie itself. It's a work of art. Prank, what can I say but: Rawhide! (whip-snap) Thanks, Miss Janet! 


	17. Five Weeks and Counting

On Friday morning, Drew announced, "I'm taking off after lunch today," to his staff.

Matt's eyes bugged out a little. "You? _You're_ taking off?"

"Yes. I _am_ allowed two personal days a year, you know."

"Which you never use." Kim pointed out. "I think the last time you took one was—the day you went to closing on your house."

"And that was over a year ago. Surely I'm due for another—and I'm not even using a full day. I have some things I need to do at home, so I'm going to knock off early."

"It isn't that you don't have the right to leave, it's just out of character for you, that's all." Matt told him.

"Ohhhh, I get it." Kim nodded. "It's a closing deal of another kind. How, ahem, is Doctor Winslow?"

"She's just fine, thank you. As it so happens, she's coming over to my place for dinner. She's never seen my house."

"So that's it," The light dawned on Matt. "Good for you."

"Are you actually cooking her dinner, or are you going the reheat-from-Whole Foods route?" Kim wanted to know.

"I'm cooking. Everybody ought to know how to cook. I enjoy it, actually. The only element I will be buying pre-made is dessert. "

"So what's on the menu?" Kim leaned forward.

"And is she bringing her toothbrush?" added Matt.

"People with true regard to their dental health always bring their toothbrushes, Matt. I will disregard the salacious implication this time, but you're pushing it. As to the food, I always like to leave some room for inspiration, but risotto is definitely on the list. Now, since it is only 9:15, how about if we do some work?"

Drew sat down and turned on his computer, bringing the conversation to a close. However, he did think to himself, _I have a great deal to thank Samara Morgan for. Claire have gotten to know each other a lot better and more deeply by investigating her life, death and afterlife than we would have through ordinary dating_.

_That does leave me with a problem, though. How am I to bring a romantic evening to a successful conclusion when the ghost of an eight-year-old girl in the room watching everything we're doing? It's not like I can hire a babysitter for her_…

* * *

"Samara Morgan? Why do you want to know about Samara Morgan, after all this time?" asked Karen Meyers. She was a thirty-two year veteran of Eola Psychiatric's nursing staff, a solidly built woman in her late fifties. "I know they only recently found her body, but still…"

"Rachel Keller, the reporter who found the body, is an acquaintance. She told me some of what she discovered in the process. I'm with the medical examiner's office now, but I started off in pediatrics and I thought Samara would make an interesting case study."

Claire picked up her mug and tried a sip of the hospital coffee. It was vile. She set the cup down and glanced out the breakroom window. It was dreary out, the sky dark with the promise of rain. The angle at which she sat turned the window into a shadowy mirror, reflecting the two of them.

"Yes, I suppose she would." mused the nurse. "It's been such a long time, but no one who ever encountered Samara ever forgets it. What do you want to know?"

"To begin with, let's talk about her therapist. Doctor Graham Scott. Samara was the first child he ever worked with, and he had no children of his own, is that correct?"

"Yes. But how did you know that?" Caught with her mug of coffee halfway to her lips, the nurse paused.

"I read his initial assessment of Samara's mental state. He looked at her, wrote, 'Unkempt, downward gaze, poor eye contact,' and judged her as he would an adult. An unkempt adult who maintains a downward gaze and avoids eye contact may well be undersocialized, rebellious, and maladjusted.

"An eight-year-old, particularly one with waist length hair, needs supervision and assistance when it comes to grooming and dressing. When her mother is mentally ill and her father is so distant she fears he's going to abandon her, no one's left to help her brush her hair and make sure her clothes are neat and clean.

"Samara was also along among strangers in a place where they put crazy people—forgive my choice of words, but I'm putting it as she might have seen it—and those strangers are looking at her to find out if she's crazy, too. Under those circumstances, a downward gaze and poor eye contact are normal reactions. He drew the wrong conclusions. As a result, I don't trust his later assessments or his course of treatment. What led him to recommend that Samara be kept heavily sedated at all times for staff safety?" Claire was feeling particularly savage about Doctor Scott. She had learned too much while reading through the files.

When Samara refused to get better, after all the tests he put her through, after electroshock therapy, massive doses of insulin, scalding hot and ice-cold baths, after he alienated her, scared her, tried all sorts of different medications in all possible combinations, after he bullied her and told her she did not think and feel what she thought and felt, when she continued to defy him by not responding to treatment….

He lobotomized her.

Even that didn't have the effect he wanted—not surprising, as by that time, Samara was significantly worse than when she entered Eola Psychiatric. Not because of anything wrong with her, but because his 'treatments' had been abusive.

"What was Samara doing that such heavy sedation seemed necessary?" Claire asked again.

"It's difficult to explain…I see you have the pictures there."

"Yes." Claire pulled out the black and white transparencies. They were X—rays. "On video SM0015, Dr. Scott asked her how she made them. That seems to indicate there was something unusual about them."

"I'll say. We took her down to Radiology for x-rays one day. Dr. Scott wanted to see if there was anything unusual about the conformation of her skull or her brain. The technicians took four x-rays, but when the pictures were developed, instead of her skull, those were there. No one was ever able to figure out how she did it. Today, I'm sure anyone could turn them out in an hour with photo-imaging software, but back then, it would have taken hours to do each one, and all sorts of materials. Then she would have had to get down to the lab and put them through the machine.

"And look at them! They're…horrible."

"I've looked at them. I don't find them particularly shocking, but that may be a generational difference. One can find worse images in a Nine Inch Nails video." Claire had gone through a goth period in high school. "What shocks me is that no one seems to have understood what Samara was trying to say."

"Why? What do you get out of them?"

"This." Claire laid out three of the pictures. "These express how much she misses her mother, the one person in the world she loved, how she hates the medical procedures, and how she's afraid she'll never see her mother again."

"Where do you see that?"

"The hair brush in this one is a reference to her mother. Anna Morgan had very beautiful hair, and Samara spent a lot of time watching her comb and brush it. The comb in this one, next to the doll dressed like her mother is another mother-reference. You'll notice the doll and comb are surrounded by electrodes and wires, tangled in them, that's how she felt about the tests.

"This picture shows a fashion doll, a doll with a fully developed figure, buried in the ground. That's Anna. She's transfixed with nails and pierced with hypodermic needles. Above her is a baby doll, Samara herself. The doll has been dismembered, cut off. The head rests on the ground next to the feet. That expresses her fear of being cut off from her mother, who is being kept from her by the medical staff of Eola. The hypodermic needles, you see. They're also shooting straight into Anna's heart. The fourth one here, the centipede with the pins through it, is how Samara felt about being tested and questioned and studied: like a bug mounted on a card in a specimen case."

The nurse took them and looked at them. "I suppose—were you trained in child psychology?"

"I minored in it."

"They're still frightening."

"They came from the mind of someone who was frightened."

"But how did she do it?"

"She wasn't a normal child or an ordinary child. Perhaps by telekinetically moving radioactive particles where they had to go. We'll never know."

"What about the rest?" the nurse demanded. "What do you read in them?"

"This one—" Claire picked up a picture of a skeletal hobbyhorse rocking on ocean waves. "is her dislike for the horses Richard Morgan cared more about than he did her. She wishes they were all in the ocean, which is what happened to them."

"Yes. We heard about that. The horses went mad and drowned themselves, after they went back." Karen Meyers took it and looked at it. "She did it…That was why she was sedated. When we worked around Samara, or with her, things—happened. You'd be cutting open a package with a box cutter, and the next thing you knew, you would have sliced it right across your other hand. It was the way she sat there and hated you, you could feel it, like some evil mist hanging in the air. She would look at you and hate you."

"I think you gave her little reason to love you."

"But she hurt people!"

"Didn't you ever want to hurt people when you were eight? I did. I don't say that she was right to hurt people. I'm only saying it was understandable."

"She killed Doctor Scott. She made him inject an air bubble into his carotid artery."

"He cut out part of her brain."

"Stop this! You're getting me confused." Karen Meyers shook her head, her hands up, palms facing Claire, as if to push her away. "You said you wanted to _ask_ me about Samara, and instead you're _telling_ me about her. You want to know about Samara Morgan? She was evil. She—." The nurse froze, her head turned toward the window.

"What's wrong?" Claire looked in the direction the other woman was staring, but saw nothing unusual.

"She's there. Samara." The nurse's lips had gone white. "I can see her reflection. She's standing directly behind your right shoulder. Her head is resting against your cheek, and she has her arms around your neck."

Claire swallowed. She could feel nothing, see nothing. "I can't see her. How does she look?" _Please, don't let her be dead and decomposing._

"Happy. She looks happy. W-what's going on here?" Nurse Meyers stood up slowly. Her color was not good, and she looked as though she were going to faint.

"Happy. I wish I could see her. I'm afraid I misrepresented my reason for coming here. Samara is haunting me—and I have five weeks to find out why."

"What happens at the end of the five weeks?"

"She'll probably kill me."

The other woman shoved her chair in so violently that some of Claire's untouched coffee slopped over the edge. "I don't want anything to do with this. You can complain to my superiors all you want. Goodbye, Doctor Winslow. Get out of here—and take her with you." She left the room, casting one fearful glance back over her shoulder.

"That did not go well. I shouldn't have gotten upset." Claire was not surprised to see the spilled coffee had left a ring on the table top. "That's just showing off, young lady." She scooped up the X-rays and blotted a few stray drops with a napkin.

Leafing through them again, she looked at the images. Had an eighteen year old or a twenty-eight year old Samara entered these in an art exhibition entitled 'Portraits of My Childhood' they would have stood out as remarkable—bold in composition, vividly emotional. There was nothing clumsy or uncertain about them. They were the works of a sophisticated intelligence who used visuals as a composer used notes.

Thinking of the video, also the product of Samara's mind, she murmured, "You were meant to be an artist, Sammie." Her eyes began to sting as tears threatened.

_What a waste…

* * *

_

A/N: Hello, my faithful readers! Hope you like this chapter—the X-Rays mentioned, and other information about Samara and Anna's stay in Eola can be found on line at the official ring the movie site. Sorry, Prank, according to the site, Dr. Scott, Samara's therapist is indeed dead; Samara got him first. Thanks also to Miss Janet, Vampyro and Over the Moon!

And if Claire seems like she's having mood swings, it's because she is—and it's due to the pregnancy she still doesn't know about.


	18. The King of Wands

On the drive back, Claire stopped at a gas station, as much to get something to eat as for a fill-up. _My appetite still hasn't slowed down_, she thought gloomily, running a finger around her waist to dig her skirt out of the groove it dug into her flesh. _I've definitely put on some weight. Not a lot, not yet, but my clothing is getting tight around the middle. _

_Then again, I am due for my period very soon. It might just be retained water_.

The cashier reminded Claire of herself at about age nineteen. She had on a little too much eye make-up, and she was bent over a thick book. As Claire approached the counter with her bag of trail mix, she saw tarot cards spread out all over it, and the book was a psychology text.

"Oops, I'm sorry. Let me get these out of your way." said the girl, gathering up the cards.

"It's okay. Working a cash register must get pretty boring for anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together."

The cashier smiled wryly. "It's even worse when you're not working the cash register, because there's nobody to ring up. With your gas, that'll be $47.92."

"Ow. Here's my card…Speaking of cards, how do those fit in with Psych 201?" Claire indicated the tarot deck.

"You'd be surprised. Their basis is all symbolism and psychology. There's no woo-woo magic involved," the girl waggled her fingers, "and there's nothing satanic about them either. They don't tell you anything you don't already know. You use the meanings of the cards to illuminate your inner struggle, and identify your problems and their solutions."

"How much would you charge to read mine?" _If anyone needs their inner struggle illuminated and the solution to their problems identified, it's me. What am I supposed to do about Sammie?_

"Oh, I couldn't charge you money. I'm on the clock—and on camera." The girl pointed to a monitor.

Claire glanced at it. _That's it. I'm going on a diet. I look **fat**_. "Oh, well. It was just a whim, anyway."

"But it has been slow today, so what if I just do it for free? I'll have to stop if someone comes in."

"That would be great."

"First of all," said the girl, whose name was Kari, "you have to pick a court card to represent you. Court cards are like the king, queen and jack in a regular deck, but the jack is called a knight, and there's a fourth, called the page. They're personality archetypes, like the Myers-Briggs personality tests." She picked up a smaller deck of cards. Pick any of them."

Claire chose.

"The Queen of Swords. You're intelligent, complex and courageous." Kari flipped through a book, "concerned with attention to accuracy and detail. You have gained inner wisdom and a sense of truth through your experiences, and you overcome adversity to achieve a state of grace. Your element is Air. The negative aspect of your personality is that you make a nasty enemy. Swords are sharp, which means they can cut deep."

Placing the rest of the small deck on the larger, she handed it to Claire. The Queen of Swords went face up on the counter. "Shuffle them good, and turn them so they're not all facing up when they're dealt."

Claire did so. "Now hand me the deck." Kari laid out cards. "Okay, you have two people who are very important to you in your life right now. One of them is a child or a child-like person, the Page of Cups, also known as the Princess of Waters. He or she is quiet, artistic, somewhat otherworldly—they might even have paranormal abilities, especially foresight. The negatives here are selfishness, secretive, and they're the kind of person who'll enjoy spreading poison around. Recognize him or her?"

"Yes. It's uncannily accurate."

"Not really. You're just thinking of someone who fits the profile. The other one is a man, the King of Wands, or the King of the Chariot of Fire. He's the Mr. Right of the Tarot—charming, responsible, loyal, entertaining, witty, honest, conscientious, and generous. He loves home and family life. He's also a very passionate and, uh, virile man who's good at moral support and encouragement. He's fair-minded, and he can see both sides of any argument, but he does have a ruthless streak in him, and his deep convictions can get him into trouble because he goes into some situations with his mind already made up."

"May I see that page?" Kari handed Claire the book. "You'd think the author had met him…" _Not that I can answer for the 'very passionate and virile part'. Not yet anyway_.

"See? You already knew these people. The cards just point them out to you. Anyhow, the next card symbolizes what's going on. Look for this to show up around you, and it'll show you you're on the right track." The card in question was the Wheel of Fortune—concentric circles or rings.

_Why am I not surprised?_ "What does it mean? Other than the obvious."

"It means change. Not always for the better. Things coming full circle. Next is the Six of Swords. That means you're going to be traveling by water soon, to the next card—the Tower."

"It looks like a lighthouse."

"Uh-huh. But it's not—the light on top is an out of control fire, and it's being washed away by the floods below. People are falling out of the windows. It means the ruin of the house of life when evil prevails within it. Wherever you're going, it's the site of misery and horror. When you're there, you're going to find the Empress reversed."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, see the card?" Kari tapped it. To Claire, it was right side up. It showed a pregnant woman sitting on a throne. She wore a crown of stars and a green robe. "The Empress is the card for all that's good and feminine. Fertility, love, abundance, growth, generosity, life, motherhood. When she's upside down, that means all of those things are dead or turned to corruption in her. She might be a real person, or she might be symbolic. Paradise paved and turned into a parking lot, kind of."

_Or she might be Anna, on Moesko Island. I know I'll wind up going there eventually_.

"The eight of wands is next. What's that?"

"That means things are going to be happening very fast. Or they can be Cupid's arrows. Then there's the final card. This is Judgment. That's for the Day of Judgment, when the angel calls all the dead back to life. It means rebirth, renewal."

"All right." Claire looked at the cards. "If I understand you correctly, the cards are very general, and I'm assigning them specific meaning within my own life."

"Uh-huh."

"It's still uncanny. Kari, you've given me a lot to think about. Thank you." Claire took out her wallet. "See this twenty dollar bill here? I'm going to wad it up and throw it next to the trash can when I leave. If you pick it up, I'm sure the station owners don't need to know about it."

* * *

Drew had said, "I live in Magnolia," which was fine. Magnolia was the second biggest residential neighborhood in Seattle, so lots of people lived there. If he'd said "I live in Beacon View," which was a very exclusive (read: very expensive) gated community, she would have been better prepared. 

He'd also said, "I live on West Eaton Street," and gave her the house number, adding, "It's a corner lot, and the house is very modern. You can't miss it."

He did not say, "Plus, I have unparalleled views of the Sound, the mountains, the city, the ocean and the Bay, it's right across the street from Magnolia Park, the upper level of my house looks like it's about to lift off and rendezvous with the Mother Ship, and it's so spectacular that it needs a reflecting pool to do it justice.", but he should have. What sort of person had a reflecting pool for their house?

It wasn't even a big house. Claire pulled into the driveway and squinted at it. From the front, it looked like three grey rectangular boxes, two sitting side-by-side, and the third stacked on top. From the side, however, the upper level jutted proudly out over a terrace, supported only by two steel beams. Concrete gave way to glass and steel, creating a building that didn't look as though it made distinctions between the indoors and the outdoors.

Drew must have been listening for her to arrive, because he appeared at the door. "Claire! You made it. This is the place. Do you want to pull your car into the garage?"

"Yes, please," she said, adding as he disappeared again, "before my poor little Saturn expires from embarrassment." The garage door clanked and rolled up for her.

He met her as she got our, beaming and grinning like a kid showing off the new bike he hadn't known he was going to get for his birthday. "It's something, isn't it?"

"Yes…"

"It'll be about twenty minutes until dinner is ready. Would you like the grand tour?"

"Please."

He led her out of the garage and in through the front door. The ceiling rose up two stories above their heads. In front of them, a floating staircase ran up from the basement and continued to the upper story. "I know it looks as though you're living in an aquarium, there's a lot more privacy than all this glass would normally allow. The architect put up windbreak walls around the perimeter of the terrace. There's nothing too exciting on this side. There's the powder room."

"How big is the house?"

"Four thousand some square feet, with three bedrooms, two full baths and two half baths."

They turned the corner. "I'm impressed." Claire said. It was the sort of house where the boundaries between rooms were defined by furniture rather than walls. To the left was a kitchen for a gourmet chef, with warm, natural wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances and gleaming granite countertops. To the right, the dining area.

Beyond them was a living room with a leather sofa and chairs, with windows on all three outer walls. There was a telescope to look out at the water and the mountains. Tucked into a corner at the back, past the kitchen, was a media-room area, with more seats focused around a fireplace. The flat-screen television was mounted on the wall over the fireplace, where a picture might otherwise go.

"So was I," Drew said, nodding.

"Whatever's cooking smells good." Claire commented.

"Thanks. Don't worry, you'll find out what it is soon enough."

They went down the stairs, to the basement, which housed Drew's library. There were a couple of finished rooms with a few storage boxes. Drew told her, "I'm figuring these will become office space sooner or later. Right now I use one of the bedrooms. The rest of the basement is just basement, other than the powder room here."

"I like how you can walk right out into a little courtyard here. Ever think of putting a few container plants down here?"

"I could see that. Like a portable garden."

They walked up the outside stairs to the terrace and yard. Under the shelter of the overhanging second story was an outdoor dining set, laid for their dinner. There was plenty of room for a party, even to play games on the terrace, and the yard itself was cool and green.

The reflecting pool bordered it on two sides, a long, shallow 'L' of water over river pebbles. "It's not more than an inch deep, is it?"

"No. Safety considerations: you can't have somebody's toddler falling in and drowning."

They went back in and up the stairs. "I haven't done much to the place," Drew confessed. "I had the wall-to-wall carpeting ripped out and hardwood floors put in, because I'm allergic to it. Then I installed solar panels on the roof, and a generator in the garage. As far as painting or decorating, I left it all white."

"I can see that. Do you like white, or were you afraid?" They stepped into the short hallway, which was uncompromisingly colorless.

"There's nothing wrong with white. All the sunlight keeps it from being cold. But you're right, I was afraid my color sense would mess up. These are the two spare bedrooms—I only furnished one as a bedroom, because my family mostly lives in the area, and my friends, thank God, are well past the stage in life where they need a place to crash for the night. This is the one I use as my office."

"Is there a window in this house which doesn't have a great view?" Claire asked.

"Haven't found one yet, and I've looked." Drew replied. "Here's the bathroom. That's just a linen closet. This—." He opened the door at the end. "is the master bedroom."

It was a neat, clean room. Claire hadn't expected to find anything sleazy about it, no satin sheets or leopard prints, and she was right. The platform bed's linens were predictably white, there was a comfortable reading chair in the corner, and white linen sheers hung ready to cover the floor-to ceiling windows which made up three of the four walls.

"There's a deck up here?" she asked.

"Yes, and around the side that doesn't face the neighbors." They stepped outside.

"Up here, you could almost imagine we were alone in the world." Claire observed.

"One of the things I like best about this house."

"What if you were to fall for somebody who hated it?" She teased.

"Do you hate it?"

"No."

"Then there isn't a problem."

"Drew—if you don't mind my asking, how can you possibly—?"

He interrupted. "Afford a place like this on a city salary? To explain that, I have to tell you about my mom's parents, the Carmichaels. Mom was their only child, so we four were their only grandkids.

"They gave the most boring presents in the world. Gramma Carmichael knitted, so we always got sweaters every birthday and at Christmas. I can't smell wool or see an aran sweater without thinking of her. At least we could wear the sweaters. Grandpa Carmichael was even worse. All he ever gave us was pieces of paper."

"The kind with dead presidents on them?"

"Money? No. Money would've been too exciting. The pieces of paper he gave us had names like Microsoft and Starbucks on them."

"Stock certificates."

"Exactly. He loved to buy cheap stocks from new companies, twenty-five here, a hundred there. A lot of the companies never went anywhere, but those that did split and split again. Those boring pieces of paper wound up paying for things like college—and helping put fat down payments on houses. It was also a lesson in personal finances. While I was in private practice, I added to those investments. That way I live within my special prosecutor's salary."

"Good to know, but that isn't what I was about to ask."

"Oh."

"What I wanted to know was, how is it you aren't married already?"

"Um. That. Well, it doesn't help that I still get carded sometimes. I'm thirty-six, and I still look like a kid. A short kid. Women overlook me in every possible way."

"That's no answer. All you'd have to do is make the effort."

"That's the other problem. Most of the time, it isn't worth the effort. I hate bars. I can't stand 'the singles scene'. There are very few people in this world I really like on a personal level, and fewer still who I can stand being alone in a car or a room with for more than a couple of hours at a time."

"We've already gone past the couple of hours mark."

"So we have."

"I think that's your hyperactivity at work."

"Probably. Also, I did tend to drive previous girlfriends nuts."

"Within the same couple of hours?"

"Usually, yes. That's why I wanted us to get lost on that trip, remember?"

"I do. You're blushing." They were standing very close together now, and his eyes were the same color as the sky. He was short, quirky and hyperactive. He had more than enough energy to power a small city, and he freely admitted he didn't like most people. He was, frankly, more than a little conceited. But he was also kind and considerate and compassionate and wonderful.

"Another reason I'm not married yet. I embarrass too easily."

"You might not manage that much longer. I think your blushing is—kind of endearing."

"Actually, I'm hoping I don't. I—." She decided it was time to kiss him.

After a little while, it was Drew who ended the kiss. "Not that I want to stop, but first of all, the risotto can't wait much longer, and second, while we have up until now managed to keep our relationship on a PG rating, soon things are going to start happening that I'm not sure I want a eight-year-old, however ghostly, witnessing."

"I may have a solution for that—but it should wait for after dinner."

* * *

A/N: Drew's house is a real house on West Eaton St. in Seattle. If you're interested in seeing what it looks like, go to www dot cobbarch dot com I'm sure you can figure out how to convert that. It was, when I wrote this, the image on the home page. There are more pictures of it on the Selected Projects 'Houses' page, under Eaton Residence. The first three pictures are computer generated and boring, but the rest are great. 

Thank you, Prank, Over the Moon, Miss Janet, and Vampyro! This is an extra long chapter to make up for the long wait.


	19. Dinner at Drew's

"What can I do?," Claire asked as they returned to the kitchen.

"You can tell me how you like your lamb chops."

"Medium rare, thank you, and that's not what I meant."

"I know, but I had to find out somehow. I got some of those Izze sparkling water- fruit juice beverages, because I didn't know if you ever drank wine. I've never seen you order an alcoholic beverage."

"If I have one drink in a month, it's an event. I'll have a strawberry margarita now and then, or a glass of champagne."

"Just never got into the habit?"

"No."

"It's a good habit not to get into. I'm not a frequent drinker, either. Anyhow, there's a metal tub I use for an ice bucket under the sink. You could ice down the Izzes and take them outside. After that, all you have to do is enjoy the view."

"All right." She filled the tub with ice and went out to the terrace.

Drew had the chops soaking in a rosemary marinade. As he reached for the handle to the refrigerator, he paused, because someone was coming up behind him, and it wasn't Claire. The stainless steel door wasn't as highly polished as a mirror, so the reflection was blurry, but he could see it was a small, slight figure, wearing something long and white. She had dark hair. Long, flowing dark hair. Water began to stream toward him and puddled around his feet.

_Okay. What do I do? Yell for Claire? No. I'll do what I've always done when someone wanted to kill me. Make a joke and hope they laugh_.

"Hey, Samara. I see you." He stuck his thumbs in his ears, wiggled his splayed-out fingers, bugged out his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

She stopped where she was. Was she cocking her head, as if she were thinking?

_Good. Oh, good._ "I don't know what you want, Samara," he told her as kindly as he could. "But I know that if you kill or hurt Claire, you'll be hurting the person who cares about you and believes in you the most. I think you would be very lonely without her. Whatever pleasure you get from killing people, isn't it nicer to have a friend?"

Now she had turned her head a little. She was definitely thinking. "If you're thinking of killing me, I advise against it." Her little chin came up at that, in defiance.

_If I turn around, what will I see? Nothing? A half-decayed corpse? Which would be worse? I don't dare look…_

"I know I seem nice, and I mostly am, but I'm also a lawyer, and there's a reason they call lawyers sharks. You have to be determined and persistent. Now you may be more powerful than I am, but if you kill me, once I'm there on the other side with you, I will dedicate my afterlife to making your afterlife miserable.

"On the other hand, if you want to be nice in return, I have a huge soft spot for kids, especially little girls. I have nieces about your age, and they think I make a great uncle. You could have two friends who talk to you instead of just one. I know; I'll tell you a secret about myself, something I've never told anyone, not even Claire. I'm afraid of horses.

"When I was four, my sister Lisa was taking riding lessons. I went with our mom to see her at the stables, and her pony stepped on my foot. Nothing got broken, but it took almost all the skin off my toes. I bled and hollered and cried like anything. Ever since then, I've preferred to admire them from a safe distance. See? You're not the only one who doesn't like horses." The little figure behind him hesitated, and then vanished slowly.

Drew let out his breath in relief. _I may never have been closer to death_. Then he mopped up the water she left on the floor.

Claire poured each of them a blackberry Izzy, and looked at the table. It wasn't quite right. She adjusted a chair so it became a table for three. _May as well acknowledge her presence_.

Drew came out, bringing a couple of covered dishes. "The risotto and the steamed vegetables." He placed them on the table. "Hm. Should I put anything there for her?"

"Oh, I don't think she eats anything. It's there if she wants it."

"Samara and I just had a conversation in the kitchen, in fact. Well, I did the talking, and she listened. I told her why I thought she shouldn't kill me."

"I'm glad she listened."

"Me, too. Although I think she's still thinking about it. If you'll excuse me, the chops need my attention."

A few minutes later, he returned with the hot lamb chops, sizzling on the plates. "Here you go: Lamb chops marinated in rosemary and bay leaves, pumpkin risotto, and a mixture of steamed vegetables. Now, how did things go at Eola?"

"Sammie scared a nurse out of ten years growth." Claire scooped risotto onto his plate, then on to her own.

"I've got to hear about that."

Claire explained about how Karen Meyers had seen Samara's reflection snuggling up to her. "I wish I could have seen her," she finished wistfully.

"That's sweet." Drew said. "What else did you find out?"

She explained about Dr. Scott, his analysis and treatment. "Even if I hadn't seen the video, the initial examination form would have sent off warning bells. More, he continued long past the point where he ought to have referred her case to a colleague. His notes are so clinical and detached that it's hard to read what his personal feelings about her were, but he probably felt threatened by her."

Drew nodded. "I can see that. I felt threatened in the kitchen. What a miserable excuse for a doctor, though—and a human being. Did you learn anything about Anna?"

"Surprisingly little. Noah Clay made a mess of her file. What was left was what one would expect of a woman who would kill her child and then commit suicide. Depression, guilt, stress, fear. There was also a long account of her medical history, detailing her conceptions and subsequent miscarriages. She tried to have a child for ten years before she gave up on bearing one and turned to adoption. That agrees with what I glimpsed of her mind up at Shelter Mountain.

"'All I ever wanted was a child. What I got was Samara.' Adoption is rarely a first choice, and those who turn to it with reluctance, rather than embracing it, often have attachment disorders. They have difficulty bonding with a child they can't see as truly theirs. I suspect that's what happened in this case. I couldn't find any evidence that Anna or Richard went to grief counseling for the children she lost, or that she tried to get her head straight before she adopted. For that and more, I suspect I'll have to go to Moesko Island. I only hope Samara doesn't find it as traumatic to return there as Shelter Mountain."

Drew shook his head. "It just seems as though Samara drew losing numbers all down the line. Adopted by the wrong people, got the wrong therapist, everything."

Claire nodded. "And I haven't even gotten into her birth parents yet. I don't know so much as their names."

"So when do you see yourself going to Moesko? Do you want to make another weekend trip of it?"

"That would be nice…Amazing sunset."

"Yes." They watched it in silence for several minutes, in the peaceful companionship of two people who are comfortable with one another.

"Shall we have dessert indoors?" Drew asked. "It gets cold fast out here."

"Yes, let's. And we'll watch some TV." She gave him a quick wink.

Dessert was apple-almond tarts, warmed slightly and served with small scoops of vanilla bean ice cream. Instead of sitting right next to Drew, Claire sat so the prime viewing spot was empty. He had been watching CNN last, and Claire seemed content to watch that. After several minutes, however, the channel changed all by itself. No living hand was anywhere near the remote.

Drew caught Claire's eye; she smiled with the corner of her mouth, and nodded almost imperceptibly. After fifteen minutes more, they took their empty dishes to the kitchen, leaving the ghost in possession of the media room.

Together they loaded the dishwasher. "It started last night. I watched Masterpiece Theatre before I went to bed, but no sooner had I laid down than it turned back on."

"What did you do?"

"Turned it off again. When it went on once more, I figured, 'There's no way I can win this. Choose your battles.' So I plugged in the headphones, turned off the speakers, and left her to watch it all night."

"So you think she'll do that again?"

"She loves television. She'll be enthralled for several hours, at least."

"Long enough, anyway." Drew speculated. "I didn't show you the master bathroom, did I?"

"No, you didn't."

"I must correct that. If you would care to accompany me upstairs—?"

"I would be delighted to."

* * *

A/N: Thanks, Miss Janet, Over the Moon and Chibi Millenia Phantom! Here's another chapter. 


	20. Drew Screws Up Big Time

It was Monday afternoon, and Drew hadn't called her yet. That wasn't good.

After that night, they had spent the weekend together, all of Saturday, Saturday night, and only parted on Sunday afternoon.

It had been wonderful. No, it had been better than wonderful. It had been right, uncomplicated and simple and good. It had been the way Claire had always thought a relationship ought to be. They had gone to bookstores, to the park, grocery shopping, made dinner together—even gone to a Disney movie for Sammie. She hadn't been excluded; both Claire and Drew had spoken to her, and if silence was a good sign, then she was content too.

But neither of them had said, 'I love you'.

And now he hadn't called her yet. Calling was simple modern-day sexual etiquette. It was how one said, 'You and I are an us. This wasn't just a one weekend fling.'

As for why it was the man's prerogative to make that call—well, it just was.

He didn't call until after two.

"Claire? Sorry I didn't call earlier."

"That's all right," she said, because that was what one said, under those circumstances.

"Good. Listen, you know that new mass transit center they've been building down by Pioneer Square? It turns out the new 'green' buses are six inches too tall for the ceilings. The architect swears he never got the specs, while the city planning office insists he signed off on the changes. This mess, for reasons I don't yet know, has been dumped on my back."

"That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't. This is going to eat up my time. I'm looking at a sixty to eighty hour week, this week. Maybe next week, too. I'm going to be swamped."

"I see," she commented, as neutrally as she could. "I imagine you would be."

"I knew you'd understand. If you don't hear from me much this week, you'll know why. I promise I'll call as soon as I come up for air."

"All right."

"Love you." It was the first time he had ever said it. He had waited until giving her the brush off to use those words.

"I love you too." She said it because it was true, and because she might never again get the chance to tell him so.

They exchanged goodbyes, and as she hung up the phone, she felt her stomach churn. "Looks like it's just you and me, Sammie," she said softly. Then her internal conflict overwhelmed her, and she had to rush for the nearest bathroom, where she threw up.

* * *

A/N: Wow! Seven reviews. Squee! Thank you to Prank, Vampyro, OvertheMoon, Miss Janet, Bya, Chibi, and Child of the Broken Dawn. Also, a belated thank you to Emily Sim.

I have finally done something with my profile. Check it out!

Sorry this one is so short.

Why is Drew acting this way? Is he a rat-bastard, or is he just being oblivious? Find out next chapter!


	21. Why, Sammie?

Wendsday morning:

_Why, Sammie? Why? _

Claire looked at the corpse, which was crammed in between the tool bench and the garage wall. There was no mistaking one of Samara's victims—the features contorted in the face of an unspeakable horror, combined with the bloated, waterlogged look of a 'floater'. Although she had only seen one other, the corpse of Noah Clay, she recognized it.

Samara had killed this man, Eric Wechsler, a minor executive for a banking firm, and Claire had no idea why. Nor did she know how. Was there another videotape for the curse to work through?

She raised a gloved hand to rub at the back of her neck through the biohazard suit. Never comfortable at their best, this suit seemed especially designed to irk her. There was a rough spot back there which was rubbing her skin raw. "Is his wife available?"

"She's inside." All around her, technicians from the CDC were working on the quarantine bubble.

"Thanks."

Pausing as she passed the SUV parked in the garage, she stopped. Something about demanded her attention. What? Then she realized. It was midnight blue. She circled around it. Sure enough, the front end was crumpled in. Although it had been washed and scrubbed until it gleamed, that would not eradicate the microscopic traces of blood and tissue—if there were any to find. Blood was unbelievably tenacious, and a vehicle's front end had so many places where it could lodge.

"Phil?" One of the techs straightened up from the body. "I autopsied a hit-and-run last week." _Exactly **seven** days ago, in fact._ "He was hit by a midnight blue SUV, and here's a midnight blue SUV with front end damage. Are my instincts good enough for you?"

"You want me to check this one out for DNA that matches your hit-and-run victim?" He scratched his head through the biohazard suit's hood. "Wouldn't that be one for the books, if it is. We're sampling everything else around the house, so why not?"

"Would it be admissible in court?" _Not that this is likely ever to go to court. Now I know why Samara killed him. Because I talked about how much I hoped they would get this man. _

"It'll show probable cause for a search warrant, and the evidence from that will hold up." Phil got out his kit and went to work.

"Thanks." _She killed him because she thought that was what I wanted. Sammie, we are going to have a serious discussion about this._

_I'm trying to parent a ghost_. She shook her head as she passed through the garage door and into the kitchen._ I think I'm going insane_…_At least this is keeping me from thinking about Drew_. He had not 'come up for air' since his call on Monday.

The widow, a woman in early middle age who was fighting it with all her might, was sitting on the sofa in the living room as Marty drew a blood sample. She was staring straight ahead, glassy-eyed.

_Rachel Keller said Becca, the girl who witnessed her niece's death, went insane. I hope Mrs. Wechsler proves more resilient_.

"Mrs. Wechsler? Can you answer a few questions for me about your husband's death? I was told you witnessed it." Claire looked to Marty, who nodded through his biohazard suit, making the hood bounce off his glasses.

Marty was as good a colleague as anyone could find, and an excellent virologist, but the sad truth was that he was a terrible geek. It had nothing to do with being an Asian-American, which he was, albeit, at 6' 3" tall, an unusual one. It was the eyeglasses he wore. Thick and heavy horn rims with an awkward, blocky shape, they screamed 'Geek'. They said, 'I wear socks with sandals, I live at home with my mother, and I have an unhealthy obsession with at least one science fiction series.'

Claire did not know if any of those things were actually true. Besides the glasses, Marty seemed otherwise normal, but the glasses were bad enough.

Focusing her attention back on her work, she sat down next to Mrs. Wechsler. "Your husband died of a very rare virus. The good news is that it's difficult to catch and usually not fatal. It has very unusual symptoms. Now, did your husband tell you he was having hallucinations, in the week before he died?"

"Yes. He said he saw rings. Rings everywhere. On the ground. In the sky."

Such coherence was better than Claire had hoped for.

"That goes along with accounts others have told. What else, if anything, did he see?"

Mrs. Wechsler nodded. "I saw her, too." The woman's voice broke on the word 'her'. "Just before he died. She killed him."

"Who, Mrs. Wechsler?" Claire asked, although she knew the answer.

"Water. The water poured out of nowhere. It was real. She was real." The widow giggled, but not happily. This giggle suggested a hysterical breakdown was near. "Just a little girl. She was wet."

"What did she look like?" Claire pushed on.

"She had dark hair. You couldn't see her face, until—HER EYE OH GOD HER EYE!" Her voice rose to a scream.

"Mrs. Wechsler!" Claire put both hands on the woman's shoulders. "Calm down. You have to calm down. That child—wasn't really there."

"She touched his chest over his heart and he died. Right there." Mrs. Wechsler's voice dissolved into a gurgle. "Just a little little girl. I SAW HER!"

"Mrs. Wechsler, believe me when I tell you she wasn't really there. She was a hallucination. A strange side-effect of this virus, the virus your husband died of, is a hallucination of a child, a dark-haired child. It was only a hallucination."

Claire caught Marty's eye, trying to communicate _Don't question this now, and I'll tell you all about it later_. Marty looked dubious.

"That means I must have it too. Does that mean I'm going to die, too?" The bereaved woman gripped Claire's shoulders. "Is she coming back for me?"

"Did you see the ring?"

"No."

"Then you won't die. Now, you're going to have to go to the hospital for a few days for some tests, and your home will be under quarantine…" Claire rattled off the rest of the information she had to give, and let Marty lead Mrs. Wechsler off to the ambulance. Various other tasks claimed her attention, and she lost track of Marty until they were out of the mobile decontamination unit and back in street clothes. Riding back to the CDC in the center's van, she avoided his eye, hoping he had forgotten, trying to work out what she would tell him if he hadn't.

"Hallucinations of a dark-haired child, you say." Marty stated.

"Yes." Claire looked up at him, trying to look at the person behind the glasses. _Where and how did a man of Asian descent come by such length of bone? Not to mention a nose like Sherlock Holmes'…_

"I've spoken with both Rachel and Aiden Keller, and they were quite specific about their symptoms. My research isn't at a stage where I would publish it, but I can give you a copy of what I have so far." _Once I throw something together, that is_.

"I've been studying viruses for nearly eighteen years, and I have never come across any virus which had among its symptoms such curiously specific hallucinations. Hallucinations are born in the mind of an individual. For two or more people to share the same hallucination is as likely as two or more people having identical dreams."

"Nevertheless, both survivors report seeing the same hallucinations, as did Mr. and Mrs. Wechsler."

"Mrs. Wechsler tested negative for the virus."

"Oh." was all Claire could think of at that moment. "I know it defies explanation, but—."

"And I saw a dark-haired child sitting cuddled up in your lap on the ride back in the van. A child who wasn't there—at least not physically."

"Oh."

"Who is she?"

"Whose DNA is inextricably bound up in that of the virus?" Claire countered. "You discovered it yourself."

"Samara Morgan's. She is killing people."

"Yes. You're taking this in a very matter-of-fact way."

"My mother is a--for lack of a better word, a priestess. You've never met her. I think perhaps you should."

* * *

A/N: Whew! May was a rough month, but I hope things will settle down now that it's summer. Thank you MimiB.Real! As for the movie--how about Lilo and Stitch? (sort of a Daveigh Chase crossover). Thank you, Vampyro, Over the moon--I'm going to have to go and review your story, and don't think I didn't notice the Dead Wet Girl reference! And thank you Miss Janet! 


	22. Mrs Niu

Whipping out his cell phone, Marty called his mother. "I'll see if now is a good time," he explained to Claire. "Moshe-moshe? Okasan…"

Claire knew no more than a dozen or so words of Japanese, but this didn't keep her from following the call. It was all in the tone.

The conversation went something like: 'Mom, are you busy right now?'

'No, dear. Why?'

'There's a friend I want to bring by to meet you. There's something—.'

'A friend? Is this a woman friend?'

'Yes, but it's not what you're thinking. She's a colleague from work—.'

'Why didn't you mention her before? I'll be delighted to meet her. What's her name?'

'Claire Winslow. Doctor Claire Winslow. Look, she's just a friend.'

'That's all right. As if I didn't know what that meant.'

'She isn't my girlfriend, Mother. She's just a friend who has a problem. Can I bring her over?'

As Claire waited, she gave Marty the once-over while trying to ignore the sheer hideousness of his glasses, which wasn't easy. Like too much jalapeno pepper in chili, the glasses tended to overwhelm the rest of him. His suit fit him well enough, and he hadn't made the mistake of wearing white socks with his dress shoes, or a pocket protector in his shirt.

His hair needed help, but his mustache and beard were very short and neat, which was good, and his skin wasn't pasty. Instead, it was a natural deep golden-tan.

_He'd be an acceptable looking specimen if he only had the right glasses,_ Claire concluded as he finished his call. _And perhaps a better haircut_.

"Sorry about that," he said, looking sheepish.

"Did you manage to convince her I wasn't your girlfriend in any way , shape or form?"

"Not completely. I didn't know you spoke Japanese."

"I don't, but I'm also a single adult over thirty, and I too have a mother."

"Oh," he said, nodding. "Well, she's at home and she'll be waiting for us."

"All right. How are we getting there?"

"Well, I usually take the streetcar, but I live there, too."

_Aha! I was right. He does still live with his mother._ "How about if I drive and you navigate?"

"That's fine with me."

Like Drew, Marty lived in Magnolia. On the way, he cleared his throat, and offered, "It's not that I couldn't live anywhere else, financially or emotionally. I could."

"I never said you couldn't. I never said anything about it."

"You didn't have to. People get this look on their faces when I tell them I live with my mother.

" I live there because she wouldn't be able to keep the house without me. I'm carrying the mortgage on it. My stepfather passed away, and he didn't leave her very well off—and then there's his daughter, my stepsister. She's going to Corning, and she lives there too. Make a left at the light."

"Is she a lot younger than you, or is she just taking a very long time to get through college?"

"A little of both. She's fifteen years younger than I am, and she would have graduated two years ago if she weren't so—changeable." He said the last word as though he would have liked to say 'flaky', or perhaps even a stronger f-word. "Here we are."

Marty's family home was neither ugly nor spectacular. It didn't have magnificent views or a reflecting pool, and it couldn't have cost a quarter of Drew's futuristic house. It made no statement whatsoever. It was just an ordinary house with a nice-sized yard and a big front porch, and on the front porch sat a woman who could only have been Marty's mother, with the small stature and slenderness associated with Japanese women. She got up from her chair and started down the walk as Claire parked her car and got out.

"Welcome to our home, Doctor Winslow," said Marty's mother. "I understand everything now. Martin, you should have just told me she had a warashi haunting her."

"I couldn't remember the word." Marty defended himself.

"Can _everybody_ see Sammie but me?" Claire blurted, and surprised them all by bursting into tears.

Marty's mother, whose name was Satomi Niu, led Claire inside so she could wash her face. "So what exactly is a--warashi?" she asked once she had some composure back.

"A child ghost," explained Mrs. Niu. "Or a ghost child, if you prefer. This one is clinging to you closer than your shadow. How and when did she attach herself to you?"

Claire dried her hands. "Almost three weeks ago. It's a long story."

"I have the time." She led Claire back through the house and out to the porch, where Marty was leaning on the railing. "Everything all right?" he asked.

"More or less," Claire informed him.

"Please, Doctor Winslow. Take a seat. You sit too, Martin. Don't loom like that."

They sat. "Begin at the beginning." said Mrs. Niu. "Ghosts usually attach themselves to people and places to which they had strong connections in life. Except when—but I'll get to that later, after I've heard your tale."

"My ghost's name is Samara Morgan. I've been calling her 'Sammie', because—Well. On Friday, almost three weeks ago, I performed an autopsy on Noah Clay," Claire looked to Marty. "I saw signs of a disease I had never encountered before."

"The ring virus," he confirmed. "It's real. I don't know how ghosts and viruses can mix, but they seem to."

"I immediately called in a biohazard emergency. In the course of locating and testing everyone who had been in extended contact with him over the last few days of his life, the CDC rounded up his ex-wife and their son, Rachel and Aiden Keller."

"Ah, yes. I read her article about Samara Morgan in the magazine section on Sunday. You must have been a child when she died." Mrs. Niu sat forward.

"I was. And as far as I know, I never met her." Claire replied.

"Her body was found in a well, as I recall. That accounts for a great deal. Water, an enclosed space, and violent death create ghosts as a container, acid, and two metals make a battery. Go on." Mrs. Niu nodded.

"Rachel Keller told me she knew how and where Noah Clay had contracted the virus, but she wouldn't tell me unless I watched a videotape she had with her. She told me to make a copy at the same time, if I could.

"I didn't know why it was so important to her, but she was desperate, so I went along with her. I watched the video. It was—chaotic, beautiful, and grotesque in turns, loaded with primal imagery. When the video ended, my cell phone rang, and a child—Samara—said 'Seven Weeks', giggled, and hung up."

"Did she truly use the phone?" Mrs. Niu asked. "Most ghosts aren't capable of more than illusions—they project images and sounds into the mind. Poltergeists are rare. It all depends upon the psychic powers one had in life—the more psychic one is, the more one can do afterward."

"Samara had very strong and very strange powers when she was alive. She could project images even then, and burn them into X-rays. The videotape came from a VCR positioned in a cabin just above the well. She created it, somehow, and until I tried to copy it onto a DVD, it was the medium through which the virus was transmitted."

"What?" Martin sat upright. "That isn't—All right. There is a ghost involved. If the cassette had the virus on its case, and someone were to touch their mucous membranes, it could indeed be transmitted that way."

"I don't think that's how it works. Watching the video makes some sort of change, in your mind, in your body. As I said, until I tried to copy it onto DVD, those who watched it had a week to live—unless they made a copy and showed it to someone else within that time."

"A curse that reproduces like a virus." Marty mused. "Viruses can't reproduce on their own. They have to have a living host. It doesn't want to kill the host, which is a dead end for the individual organism. It wants the host to live and pass on the virus to someone else."

"Does that make me the host? Because the cycle seems to end with me. I don't know how I can reproduce it. I don't know what's going to happen at the end of the six weeks." Claire said.

"One feature of viruses is how quickly they mutate and change…."

"I am afraid I don't know very much about viruses, even if I am Martin's mother," Mrs. Niu broke in. "Ghosts, on the other hand, I do know about. It seems as though Samara began as an onryo—that's a ghost motivated by vengeance, an anger not always directed at the one responsible for its pain or death, but which spreads—not unlike a virus—outward to afflict others. Then she came across you, and something changed.

"Oh, but what am I thinking? Martin, there's a pitcher of oolong tea in the refrigerator. Could you get it, and glasses—and perhaps some of those almond cookies?"

"I'm all right—," Claire tried to say, but Mrs. Niu would have none of it.

"Such terrible manners! Please forgive us, Doctor Winslow. Martin?"

Although he knocked over his chair as he went, Marty went.

"Martin is a good son and a good man," said his mother. "but he still embarrasses easily, and I want to ask you a question which would shock him a little. You see, Samara is now acting like a soul who is awaiting re-birth. Doctor Winslow, are you pregnant?"

Hey, another cliff hanger! Thank you, Vampyro, Pranktotheman, Over the moon and Mimi B Real. More very soon I hope.


	23. Demigods

No," Claire replied immediately, "I'm not." _Even if my period is three days late now_.

"You know it for a fact? I don't mean to be rude, but sometimes one doesn't realize. Also, I see certain signs of it." Mrs. Niu leaned forward, her eyes intent on Claire's.

"Signs? What signs?"

"Your skin, your sudden tears, the way your clothing doesn't fit you quite right at the bust and the waist. Of course some people don't care how they look as long as they can stuff themselves into a small size, but the rest of your appearance doesn't bear that out."

Claire looked down at herself, and saw that her favorite seaglass-colored blouse gapped between the first three buttons, showing her bra, and her skirt was straining and creasing at the waist. "I've been eating a lot lately…"

"Much more than normal?"

"Yes, but—No, I can't be. The dates don't add up." _My last cycle started four weeks ago Monday, which means I would have been fertile around Friday two weeks ago, and the window of opportunity doesn't stay open that long. Two days at the most. Not two weeks. _

"Might she be waiting for me to get pregnant—in four weeks and two days?" _Not that that's likely. Drew has made it pretty obvious that I'm not in his life_

"No, that's not how it works." Mrs. Niu shifted position in her chair, crossing her ankles. "Ah, here's Martin."

Her colleague came out onto the porch, carefully balancing a loaded tray "And Meg." He jerked his chin at the street, where an exquisitely beautiful young Asian woman was getting out of a disreputable old Mustang.

Mrs. Niu poured tea as the girl came up the walk toward them, a stack of books at her hip. "Doctor Winslow, my daughter Megumi. Meg, this is Doctor Winslow."

"Hi. I didn't know we were going to have company."

"Oh, it was a spur of the moment thing." Claire waved a hand.

"Doctor Winslow is a friend of your brother's." explained their mother.

"Supergeek brought home a woman?" The girl blinked. "Whoa. Somebody get a shipment of ice-skates together. Hell is going to need them."

"Pestilence!" snapped Marty.

"Megumi!" Mrs. Niu cried out. "And Martin. I apologize, Doctor Winslow. My children are in the habit of insulting each other."

"That's quite all right."

"Sorry," Meg mumbled. "I spoke without thinking."

"Since you're here, I want you to run an errand for me," Mrs. Niu set her glass down. "Run down to the store and buy—." What ever it was she wanted, she said it in Japanese.

Her daughter repeated the word. "Now?"

"Yes, before you get settled. Hurry."

"But I can't—."

"Yes, you can. Go."

Putting her books down on the table, the girl did a u-turn and got back in her car.

"Brat!" Marty called after her.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Winslow." her hostess turned back to her. "May I ask you a question or two?"

"Of course," Claire replied, knowing that while Marty sat here, his mother was not going to stray back onto the question of if she might be pregnant, or when she had last had sex.

"Earlier you called your warashi, 'Sammie'. Why?"

"I've been calling her that for over a week now. It seems natural. I—suppose I'm fond of her, actually. I've been investigating her life, and the more I learn about her, the closer I feel."

"How much have you learned?"

"I'm filling in the outlines Rachel Keller drew. I've been to the mental hospital where Anna and Samara spent several months, and talked to a nurse who remembered them. Samara was adopted as an infant, and almost from the very beginning there were signs of what's called attachment disorder—which is when a mother and child have difficulty bonding.

"Much of the problems the Morgans had with her lies with the Morgans themselves. Richard Morgan never accepted Sammie as his own, and left the burden of child care on his wife, who had never wanted to adopt. I believe she was worn out physically and emotionally from years of failures and miscarriages. She didn't allow herself time to grieve and heal.

"According to the nurse I spoke to, Samara had the ability to project images into people's minds and control them somehow, telepathically. I saw for myself the X-rays she created. I can say she had an unusual artistic ability as well." Claire looked at the glass of iced tea she held, and took a sip. "And then they turned her case over to a psychiatrist whose idea of curing a headache involved a sledgehammer."

"I see." Mrs. Niu nodded. "You've done well there, and you should continue. Have you located her birth mother as yet?"

"No. I was going to wait until after I had visited Moesko Island, where the Morgans lived."

"If you were to take my advice, I would not wait. You see, the sort of powers you describe, both before and after her death, are beyond anything I have ever encountered or heard of. There is only one word I know in English which can apply to what Samara was, and I suspect, still is. That word is—Demigod."

"A demigod?" Marty pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Like Perseus or Castor and Pollux? The issue of a union between a mortal and a god?" A tinge of red suffused the skin over his cheekbones.

"I believe that is a metaphor for a more complicated reality," his mother told him. "The gods of mythology texts today are sanitized and safely in the realm of ancient history. Not as they were when people believed in them, when they raped and killed as they wished."

"That doesn't make them real," Claire said, setting down her glass. "It doesn't make them able to father children."

"I did say it was a metaphor." Mrs. Niu smiled to take the sting out of her words. "The gods were humanity's way of describing and trying to understand the power and chaos around them. That power and chaos went away for a while, for a century or so, when science and technology made our little worlds safe and tame, free of famine and disease, climate controlled—here in America, at least. Now the natural world has seemed to turn on us again. The Earth seems to have turned on us. Droughts, floods, killing storms—as though we were a disease she fought to shake off."

She looked up from her glass of tea. "But I'm drifting. I should be very surprised to learn that Samara had a mortal father. But the answers you find concerning her birth mother will be illuminating. Another question, Doctor Winslow. What would you do for this child if she were living flesh and blood, and you were her guardian?"

"I'd get her a prescription for Ritalin, probably also for an anti-depressant, and get her into therapy sessions. I'd braid her hair and put her in shorts and a t-shirt and let her run around. I'd get her into private classes—I don't think she'd be ready to interact with peers in a public school setting. We'd make cookies togeth—." Claire felt the tears welling up again, and seized a napkin from the table. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's quite all right. Now—." Mrs. Niu sat back and smiled brightly. "So, Doctor Winslow. How long have you and Martin known each other? He barely ever mentions your name…"

Mrs. Niu had not given up the idea that Claire and Marty were seeing each other.

It was excruciating….

* * *

A/N: Thanks, Overthemoon, Vampyro, and Mimi! Next chapter: Claire does Martin a big, big favor. 


	24. Talking

It wasn't until Meg returned from the store that Claire saw, and seized, a chance to make her escape.

"Of course, when Martin marries, I'll move into what's now his suite, so he and his wife will have…" Mrs. Niu was saying when her daughter reappeared.

"Here you go," said Megumi, dropping a brown paper bag into her mother's lap. "I told them it was for you."

"Thank you, dear." said her mother, distracted.

"I'm afraid I have to be going," Claire stood hastily. "Thank you for your help and your hospitality, Mrs. Niu. Thank you, too, Marty. Megumi, it was nice to meet you."

"One moment," said the older woman. "This is actually for you, Doctor Winslow. Don't open it until you get home."

"Oh, you shouldn't have put Meg to the trouble—."

"It's something I believe you may need soon. Nothing large, but significant, as you'll find." Mrs. Niu's eyes were kind and her face concerned.

"Then thank you." Claire knew when to give up. "Something to do with Samara?"

"Yes. You have nothing to fear from her—."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"—but a spirit of such power and presence, one who caused so much turmoil in life, will be noticed."

"By whom?"

"By people with a psychic gift, by other ghosts, and by—other powers. Be careful, especially around water, around horses, and in the places where you go to trace her life to its beginnings. Sunlight, open air, and growing things—plants, trees, flowers—will be your allies. Martin, you'll give her my number in case she needs it?"

"Sure."

"Then take care, Doctor Winslow. I look forward to seeing you again." She gathered up the empty glasses and took the tray into the house.

"Well," Claire said, as Marty handed her a slip with three phone numbers on it. "Thank you. I do feel better."

"That's good. Here's my mother's cell phone number, this one's the land line for the house, and just in case, here's mine. You never know." He exuded dorky sincerity.

"All right." She went to her car, and he went inside the house.

As she was pulling away from the curb, he poked his head out the front door again. "Hang on." His lanky frame windmilled down to the curb. "Claire, can I ask a favor? I left my flash drive in the lab computer at work. I don't want to leave it there, there's stuff on it I wouldn't want others to see. You're going back that way, aren't you? Can you drop me off?"

"Sure. Get in."

He did. "Thank you."

"It's the least I could do. So, what's on the drive you don't want anyone to see? Or is it too sensitive to share with me? It's nothing—uh, graphic, is it?"

He blushed a little. "No, nothing like that. It's my resume and cover letter files."

"You're looking for another job?" She could hardly imagine the lab without Marty there.

"Not randomly. I'm applying to the University Hospital's virology department. They're looking for a new Department Head."

"That would be great! Have you already applied, or is it still in the works?"

"I sent it in this morning."

"I hope you get it—but I'd miss having you around."

"Well, this isn't the first time I've applied for another job. Nothing ever seems to come of it—while I make it to the interview stage, I bomb out there. I seem to be a better candidate on paper than I am in person."

_It's because he looks like too much of a geek_, she thought. _He doesn't look like he could successfully run a lemonade stand, let alone a department. _"You'll tell me how it goes?"

"Of course. I, uh, also wanted to apologize for my mother. She was laying on pretty thick. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize for that. Like I said, I'm over thirty, still single, and I have a mother, too."

"I'm nearly forty and still single. Mom is getting desperate." he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"As long as you're happy as you are, you can ignore her pressure." She glanced at him.

"When she was about thirteen, Meg took a big black magic marker and wrote 'Loser' on my forehead while I was sleeping. The indelible kind."

"That's terrible." Claire suppressed a smile. "There're not really indelible, though."

"Might as well have been." he said.

"So what's up with her?" Claire changed lanes and eased into a turn. "She seems very hostile toward you."

"She's been like that for ages. Since her father died. She lost her mother when she was seven, and her father married my mother about a year and a half later. They were happy enough—at least I think they were. I was already in college, and I think Mom didn't like living in a empty house. Unfortunately, he came with a death sentence. Cancer. He died when Meg was twelve. His illness exhausted the family in a lot of ways."

"I can imagine."

"Somehow I'm the focus of all her anger and frustration. I'm too young to be a father figure and I was too old and too absent to have formed any kind of brotherly relationship when she was still small."

"I don't think it can be easy for her." Claire said, thoughtfully. 

"It was over ten years ago that he died." Marty objected. "And it's not as if we make her wear rags and sleep in the kitchen, like Cinderella. I'm even helping put her through college. You'd think she'd show a little appreciation."

"I'm sure she appreciates what you're doing for her." Traffic had them bottlenecked on Magnolia Bridge. "I'll bet she acted up when she was a teen—made trouble, flunked classes she should have aced, maybe even smoked or got caught drinking."

"How did you know?" Marty was goggling at her, which was not a good look for him.

"I minored in child psychology. She's still insecure, that's all. She wants reassurance that no matter how bad she acts, she's still part of the family. To return to something you said earlier, I take it you don't like being single."

"Hah!" His reply was a harsh bark of laughter.

"No luck on the dating scene?"

"Women flee from me as if I habitually chew raw garlic. Which I do not."

"Would you like a friend's, meaning me, assistance with that?"

"Umm—How painful is this going to be?"

"Not very, I hope. But it may cost you a couple of hundred dollars."

"If this is about eyelid surgery, to make me look more like a Caucasian…" He sounded offended.

"Good God, no. That would be so insulting. But you're in the right neighborhood even if you got the address wrong."

That made him chuckle. "You have me interested despite myself. Okay, let me have it."

"How long have you had those glasses?"

"I've been wearing them since I was five."

This time she chuckled. "I meant this particular pair of frames."

"Oh. Eight—no. Ten years. More than ten. I just have them change the lenses. It's not like they wear out."

"No, but they went out. Out of style, that is. You need a new pair."

"You think so?" They were inching their way through the traffic.

"Trust me. Those don't do anything for you."

He took them off and squinted at them. "I was under the impression they made me see better."

"Looking and seeing are two different things in this case."

"But Meg says she can't imagine me in any pair but these."

"This is the same sister who insults you at every available opportunity?"

"Point made. What sort of frames should I get?"

"Something as invisible as possible." Without his glasses, Marty wasn't someone you could call Marty any more. He was definitely a 'Martin', or even 'Dr. Takahashi'. "Have you ever considered contact lenses?"

"I tore a cornea and got conjunctivitis when I tried. I've been told to stay away from them. Seriously, though. If they make that much of a difference, I want to get the right ones."

I'd say—you're on the same vision and dental plan as I am, right? There's a 48-Hour Vision Center down the block from the CDC. Even if you don't want to order them today, you can get an idea of what suits you. If you have the time, that is."

"Just let me retrieve that flash drive, and I'm there."

About an hour and a half later, Martin was squinting at his reflection in the vision center's mirror. "I can't tell how I look. You think these are the ones?"

"Definitely." They were 'John Lennon'-like frames—two rings of thin wire with a bridge that was hardly thicker than a pencil line, and fine arms. They revealed that Martin had excellent bone structure, high cheekbones, an engaging, boyish smile, and dimples. "I wouldn't be surprised if they make a difference for you professionally, too. You look—professorial."

"Really?" He sat up straighter. "Hmmm." Pulling out his wallet, he beckoned to the salesperson. "I'll take these."

"Thank you, sir. Just let me take your prescription information…These should be ready Friday afternoon."

"Forty-eight hours, huh?"

"That's what we advertise."

"Would you like a lift back?" Claire offered, as they left.

"Oh, I couldn't impose on you. No. Thanks, though."

"At least let me take you back over the bridge."

"Well…" It looked as though it was going to rain, but that was nothing remarkable for Seattle. "If you insist." He followed her back to her car and folded his large frame back into the passenger's seat.

"I'm guessing," she said, glancing at him as she pulled out of the parking lot, "that you must take after your father more than your mother. Was he as tall as you are?"

"Not quite," Martin replied. "If he'd grown up in the US, like I did, he might have been. Better nutrition and all."

"Right."

"So, since I've gone this far, is there anything else that needs a makeover about me? You might as well finish the job."

"Are you passionate about any science fiction or fantasy series? I don't mean that you just like them. Anybody can enjoy them. I mean, do you dress up and go to conventions? That sort of thing."

"Good God, no."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that. In a man pushing forty, that's a very bad sign. You might consider a change in your haircut, but I wouldn't call it a dealbreaker as it is now."

"A haircut…I guess I could do that. Would you like to get together this weekend and, um, I don't know, go someplace? Unless you have plans?" His face was bright red; asking had taken a lot.

"I—," and she was crying again.

"Oh—what did I say? Hey, driving and crying doesn't work. Please pull over…That's better. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, it's just that there was someone I thought I was seeing…" She explained about Drew.

"So you've been dating Drew Strathmore. I've heard about him." Martin sounded as if he didn't like what he had heard.

"What? What did you hear?" Claire sniffled.

"No, no," Martin held up his hands defensively. "I'm not going to say anything. You and he may patch things up in a couple of days, and then you'll be mad at me for saying anything negative about him. I know how these things work."

"No. Please. Tell me. Is it about women?"

"I'd rather not."

"Does he seduce women a lot, is that it?"

"No, not specifically…"

"Then what is it? _Please_ tell me."

"I really don't want—All right. All that I heard was that he's obsessively goal-oriented. Not that he's a womanizer, nothing about his love-life at all. Just that he goes after things 100 percent. He's totally sincere, but once he achieves what he was after—he loses a lot of interest."

"Oh. I see. That makes a lot of sense. Thank you."

"You'll wind up holding this against me."

"No, I promise, I won't."

There was an awkward silence in the car. Martin broke it.

"I think I'll just go the rest of the way on my own. You're upset, and I'm not helping."

"That's not true—."

"I think it is. Thank you for your help, Claire. I really do appreciate your advice. Go home, wash your face, and get a good night's sleep."

"But—."

"Good night." He got out of the car. "I meant what I said, though." He paused before he closed the door. "If you do want to get together some time—you have my number now."

"Thank you."

When she got home and opened the bag, she discovered that the gift was a home pregnancy test.

A/N: Thanks to Vampyro, MimiBReal, Over the moon, and Sabejias! I update as often as Real Life and my inspiration allow.


	25. Ice Cream Cravings

A/N: Confession time: I borrowed—okay, took—all right, _stole_ this chapter's situation from The Eye II. It just fit so well…

* * *

Thursday Night:

Claire took an orange from the turquoise fruit bowl on her counter, peeled it, and ate the segments slowly. The color of the peel was close to the color of her hair; not that she was comparing them.

It was no good. Not the orange itself, it was fine, as sweet and juicy as one could want, but she craved a bowl of ice cream. Coconut ice cream, with chocolate syrup drizzled over it, like a frozen Mounds bar. She wanted it very, very badly.

All that day she had been good about what she ate, not starving herself, but making good food choices. A bowl of raisin bran instead of a big plate of scrambled eggs for breakfast. Rice with lots of vegetables and a piece of fish, not steak, for lunch. An apple in the afternoon. A skinless, boneless chicken breast half for dinner with fresh tomatoes and a small portion of pasta. And now an orange.

Sensible meals, nutritionally balanced, low in fat and carbohydrates, but not so light that she was hungry.

Except that she was. And she wanted ice cream. Empty calories laden with fat and cholesterol, with lots and lots of sugar. The calcium from the milk wouldn't even come close to making up for that.

_No._

_I want it!_

_No. It's late._

_But this craving won't go away! I want ice cream!_

_It's 10:48 at night. You can't have it._

_Ice cream! Sweet delicious coconut ice cream. Chocolate syrup—and maybe chopped nuts._

_More fat. No._

_I still want it. _

_No._

_If I don't get some, I'll keep on wanting it. I'll obsess over it. I won't be able to think of anything else._

_No._

_But if I do get it, then it's done and over with. I can put it behind me. I can just have a portion—even half a portion—and then I won't want it so badly. The first taste is always the best, after all._

_One portion, and the rest goes down the sink._

_All right!_

Her internal battle won—or lost, depending on how one looked at it, she slipped down off the stool and went for her purse. The convenience store was on the next block, and her at-home sweater and drawstring pants would do for such a short outing.

Getting there wasn't the problem. Finding what she wanted wasn't the problem. It was on the way back that she encountered trouble.

She knew a shortcut through the parking lot which separated her complex from the next. Technically it wasn't open to pedestrians, but going around meant adding ten minutes to her walk, while going through…

Going through meant two or three minutes of shadows and strange noises, in a place without security cameras or bright lights. She had walked through there dozens, hundreds of times in the years she had lived there, safely and unbothered.

But tonight was different.

She rounded a corner of the building, and a man stepped out in front of her. "Hi, maybe you can help me. Do you know where I can catch the rail car?" There was nothing special about him; he was medium everything, medium height, medium build—nothing except his eyes, which were bright with excitement.

She recoiled, then controlled herself. "It's right down the block. You can see the sign if you look to the left." Without breaking pace, she tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her path again.

"What about the bus stop? The bus is more convenient for me, actually."

"I think you better find somebody else to help you," she replied, tight-lipped. Casually, she slipped one hand into her purse, feeling for her keys and the pepper spray which shared the key ring.

"Can't you go with me?" he asked, and then he had her in his grasp, one arm around her waist and the other around her neck, holding a rag with the familiar odor of chloroform over her nose and mouth.

She couldn't scream, screaming would mean taking in a deep breath. She held it instead, and fought as she had learned to in self-defense classes, jabbing with her elbows, kicking at his shins, trying to crush his toes.

He didn't seem to notice. She was tall and strong for a woman, but he matched her in height, and outmatched her in weight and strength. Time was on his side, too. Eventually she had to breathe, and the more she fought, the faster that moment came. She had no choice but to breathe in that numbing vapor.

Claire's assailant had done this many times before. He knew better than to relax immediately once she went limp in his grip, and he kept the anesthesia-soaked cloth over her face for several moments longer, ensuring she was unconscious before he dragged her behind a dumpster, a space shielded from direct view.

He had almost let her pass by unmolested, thinking her a teenage boy rather than a tall woman, but then he saw her purse. Whether she was young or old, attractive or ugly, gaunt or obese did not matter to him; his victims had ranged from seventeen to seventy-four. She was a woman, and that was enough. He tugged at her clothing, pulling her sweater off and reached for the knot at her waist.

Then she moved.

Claire came to, and for a moment she did not know where she was. "Claire. I'm sorry, but I have to ask you this. Do you have any diseases such as AIDS or hepatitis?"

"What?" She was sitting in a wheelchair in a hospital emergency room. Focusing on the person who had asked her the question, she realized she knew the woman. Doctor Bethany Bainbridge, who had interned with her at Seattle General. "Why?"

"We need to know what he might have been exposed to." Bethany explained. "Don't worry, we're giving him the full battery of tests, so we know what you've been exposed to."

Claire shook her head and felt wet tendrils of hair against her neck. Looking down, she saw she was wearing a hospital gown over a pair of surgical scrub pants, and an IV snaked down into her arm from a bag of clear liquid above her head. "What—? What happened?"

"She's coming out of shock now." Bethany explained to someone just out of Claire's range of vision. "Like I said, she was running on autopilot."

The 'someone' stepped forward. It was a police officer, one Claire didn't know. "You don't remember?" he asked.

Memories were starting to come to her. There'd been a weird man in the parking lot, and a rag with chloroform.

"Was I raped?" she asked. _What a horrible way to get pregnant_…

"No." The officer regarded her with curiosity. "You really don't remember, do you? We're pretty sure the guy who grabbed you is a serial rapist we've been looking for for some time. There are about a dozen women who reported being attacked the same way. We're going to have to wait for the DNA evidence, though."

He made that pronouncement and paused, clearly waiting for her to ask. "All right. Why 'though'?"

"Because he doesn't have enough face left to identify. Not in its original condition. It took three people to pull you off him."

An orderly pushed a wheelchair past them. A person sat in it, his—if it was a he—face bandaged like a mummy's, with only the eyes and a slit for the mouth left uncovered. His hands were bandaged as well, and hand-cuffed to the chair's armrests. His head nodded, and he seemed drugged. When his eyes opened and he saw Claire, however, he began to scream—and scream—and scream.

"Hey, don't do that!" exclaimed the orderly, as red spots appeared on the pristine white of the bandages, spreading out into splotches. "You've torn the stitches!" He turned the chair around. "Back to work—Oh, is that her? Ms. Hannibal Lechter?"

"Just take him back to Doctor Simms." Bethany ordered.

"I did that to him?" Claire asked.

"Don't worry," the policeman told her, "You're not in any trouble. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense, and you were under the influence of a drug he administered to you. You're not responsible for your actions. Anyhow, no one's going to blame a pregnant woman for defending herself against an attacker."

"What?" burst from Claire's lips.

"Don't worry," Bethany laid a hand on Claire's shoulder. "You probably don't remember, but that was all you were concerned about when they brought you in. 'Is my baby all right? Did he hurt my baby?', you kept repeating. We had to let you listen to the fetal heartbeat before you'd let us clean you up, and then we took you for an emergency ultrasound, to make sure nothing got torn loose. Not that you were bleeding or anything. By the way, " She handed Claire several blurry ultrasound print-outs. "here you go. Sammie's first baby pictures."

"…I told you about Sammie?"

"Uh-huh. You seem very certain it's going to be a girl, but it's a bit soon to tell. Still, I guess if it's a boy he can be 'Samuel', rather than Samara. Anyhow, you have a normally-developing four-month fetus floating around inside you—what's wrong?"

"I—uh, hadn't told anyone yet."

"Hon, it's only a matter of time before the whole world is going to know you're pregnant just by looking. Now, it's 3:37 in the morning, so you're our guest for the rest of the night. Officer Kandinsky tells me he wants to take your statement, and then I'll send someone to take you to a room. Okay?"

"Okay," Claire replied, mechanically. She answered the officer's questions as best she could, but her mind was elsewhere.

_'Seven weeks.'_

_"Doctor Winslow, are you pregnant?"_

_"I've found out what's so strange about the DNA structure of that virus. It's partly human."_

_"If I recall correctly, viruses are like tanks. A virus invades a cell, like a tank invading a factory, and the DNA swarms into the cell, taking over its resources and stuffing it full of its own genes. Then it forces the cell to replicate the virus, which then bursts out in all directions to invade more cells. Now you're saying this virus is loaded with Samara's DNA."_

_"That's right."_

_"Does that mean Samara's DNA takes over? Is an infected person going to grow into a Samara-clone?"_

_'Seven weeks'_

_"Viruses can't reproduce on their own. They need a living host."_

_"What would you do for this child if she were living flesh and blood, and you were her guardian?"_

* * *

A/N: Thank you, Vampyro and Over the moon!


	26. In the Hospital

Waking up disoriented Claire. Her dreams had been troublesome. Bit by bit, much as an IV drip sent diluted medicine into the bloodstream , her subconscious had been revealing what had happened in that time she could not remember. _Wet_ and _red_ were the first adjectives which sprang to mind.

Most disturbing, however, was realizing that it hadn't been anyone else—not Sammie, or Anna. She had done it. _I bit off part of his lip and spat it out. That's one small consolation. I did spit it out. I didn't swallow it._ The doctor in her wondered: _Were they able to sew the piece back on?_

_I didn't know I had such a capacity for violence in me._

_That's not all I have in me. _She touched her belly. Could she feel a butterfly flutter in there, the first perceptible stirrings of an unborn child? _Seven weeks. I know I'm not four months pregnant. Three weeks ago today I watched that video. I had my period two weeks before that. That means I was fertile that day_.

She got out of the hospital bed and headed for the bathroom, where she pulled up her gown to look at herself. She didn't quite look visibly pregnant—not yet. Catching her own eyes in the mirror, she noticed that in many ways, she had rarely looked better. Her complexion glowed like polished ivory, dewy with hormones. Her expression wasn't nearly so nice. She looked the way she felt—horrified.

_Viruses reproduce by invading host cells and hijacking their reproductive capacity…That wouldn't mean anything, except that the ring virus carries Samara's DNA. I think the virus found my egg, and replaced my chromosomes with hers. Except that it replaced a half set of chromosomes with a full set, and that's what makes an egg into an embryo._

_I'm not just going to give birth to Samara's reincarnation. I'm going to give birth to her clone. _

_In four weeks._

_Oh, god, no! That isn't right. It isn't natural. How is my body going to do in seven weeks what should happen over the course of nine months?_

_Is that how I'm going to die? I need to talk to somebody. But who?_

_Mrs. Niu did say to call her_. Claire used the bathroom, washed up, and went for her phone.

"Mrs. Niu?" Claire asked, unsure whether it was too early to call.

"Doctor Winslow," The older woman didn't sound annoyed. "Good morning."

"First of all, I have to tell you that you were right. I am pregnant."

"The signs were very clear." _At least she isn't gloating_. "Are you all right?" Martin's mother went on to ask.

"No. I'm not. Nothing about this is all right. I'm ready, now, to accept everything you said about demi-gods" Claire could hear an edge of hysteria in her voice. "Because I wasn't pregnant five weeks ago, and today tests say that I'm four months pregnant. And I have a month to go until the seven weeks are up, and she's born. What am I supposed to do?"

"Do you recall the last question I asked you, Doctor Winslow?"

"No."

"I said, 'What would you do for this child if she were living flesh and blood, and you were her guardian?'"

"Oh."

"I remember your reply," Mrs. Niu continued. "You said you would love her and cherish her. You said you would accept her for who she is, and help her to grow and thrive. Not in those exact terms, I admit, but that is what you said. That is what you are supposed to do, and it is what you will do. Everything else—is just a matter of details."

"There are a lot of details, then! Last night, I—or she—nearly killed a man."

"If you 'nearly' killed a man, then it was you. She would have no compunction."

"I'm afraid."

"So are all women when they become mothers. It is the natural—and only sensible—reaction. Doctor Winslow, I know you are troubled, and you need my help, but at the moment I can't give it. I have a class I teach in kanji, traditional calligraphy, in the mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I will be free after lunch, if you will."

"All right." Claire gave Mrs. Niu her address, and ended the call.

* * *

Because of the hour at which the attempted rape occurred, the article which ran in the paper the next morning was brief.

Suspect in Series of Rapes Apprehended

Police were called to the scene at about 11:35PM last night in response to a 911 call concerning a fight in a downtown Seattle parking lot. Upon their arrival, they discovered two persons, the suspect and his intended victim locked in a struggle. The victim, a pregnant woman, had successfully defended herself and detained the suspect until the police arrived. It is the policy of this newspaper not to reveal the names of victims of sex crimes.

The victim's description of the circumstances of his attack matched the known mode of operation of the series of rapes which have taken place over the last two years in the Seattle area, including the use of chloroform.

Owing to injuries inflicted during the attempted attack, both victim and suspect were taken to Seattle General Hospital. The suspect is under arrest and the police are maintaining constant surveillance upon him. The victim is under observation, and is said to be in stable condition. No charges will be pressed against her.

The assignment to write the full story went to Rachel Keller.

The press conference at City Hall was typical. "The suspect's name is Patrick Wayne Garrett." said the police spokesperson. "He is 43 years old, and since the death of his mother three years ago, he has held no regular job. He was detained at the scene and arrested once police arrived. The only reason he has not been transferred to the jail is his medical condition. He sustained injuries during his struggle with the victim prior to his arrest which have led to complication. He is under police surveillance at every moment; we have officers in his room, and they will remain there 24-7 until he's ready to be brought over to the jail."

"What are the nature of those injuries?" called out Evelyn from Channel Nine News.

"Multiple contusions, lacerations, and fractures of the face, head and hands," the spokesperson replied. "He suffered significant blood loss, and his condition was exacerbated by his refusal to keep still and quiet. We don't know when he'll be ready for release into our custody."

"What about the victim?"

"She's resting comfortably. Thankfully, she came through this without any injury to herself or her baby. She's a very brave woman, and we're grateful to her for her help in hopefully closing this case and putting an end to the series of rapes in this area…"

Dull stuff; every media outlet in the world could get that. She needed something more, something juicier. She called up her contact at the hospital, one of the nurses, and met her at the coffeehouse across the street.

"Give me the real stuff, Roslyn. What did she actually do to him?"

The nurse swirled her tea around in the bottom of the cup. "Did you have a big breakfast?"

"No."

"Good. Maybe you'll be able to keep it down, then. He hardly has any face left. All there was, when they brought him in, was a bloody blob with eyes and a mouth. She went after him tooth and nail—literally—and then pounded his head against the pavement for good measure."

"My god!"

"Uh-huh. His nose isn't just broken, it's smashed flat. One of his cheekbones is, too. His upper lip was partially severed—bitten off—and they haven't found it yet. His lower lip was shredded, and his fingers were bitten to the bone in several places. Don't bother feeling sorry for this guy, though. We had a couple of his victims come through here, too. He had it coming to him."

"So who is she, the so-called victim? She sounds like a cross between a superhero and a werewolf. Don't worry, her name won't go on the record."

"That's the oddest thing. She's a doctor, and she works for the city. She does autopsies for the medical examin—."

"Is her name Claire Winslow?"

"Yes. Do you know her?"

"As it so happens, I do."

* * *

Thank you, Elthiel, Sabejias, Vampyro, MimiBReal, Cherrymex23, and Overthemoon! More soon, I hope. And Drew will reenter the story... 


	27. Drew Wakes Up

Drew put down his pen and rubbed his eyes. _Isn't today over yet?_ He glanced at the clock in the corner of the monitor. _It's only lunchtime….Screw this. I put in thirty-four hours of uncompensated overtime this week, for which I will get few thanks and no glory. I'm going to take a real lunch hour and I'm going to start by calling Claire._

Pulling out his phone, he keyed in her number. _The weekend is only four short hours away, and I'm going to spend it with my family…_

The thought made him pause before he pushed the final button. _My family? Claire and Sammie. My girlfriend and a ghost are what I think of as my family. Either I need therapy or we ought to just get married. _

_Which is not so bad a thought, actually_. He tapped in the last number.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded thick and flat.

"Claire."

She cut him off before he could say anything else. "Let me guess. You're sorry you haven't called all week, and you don't know how to say it, but you'll be busy this weekend, too. You'll call me as soon as you have a moment, though."

"What?" he asked. _Uh-oh. When did I last—Can it really have been_ _Monday? Time to fall back on what I do best—make her laugh_. "Claire, I am sorry. Truly. I get obsessed with work sometimes, I should have warned you. I should have called. Would you like me to grovel? I will. I don't know how good I'll be at it, but I'll do my best—."

She interrupted again. "I don't know what's going on with you, and frankly, I don't care. Right now I have bigger issues to cope with."

"You've been crying." _She's __**really**__ upset_.

"Yes. I have."

"What's wrong? Apart from my poor behavior, that is."

"What's wrong?" She sniffled. "To begin with, I was attacked in a parking lot last night. Then—never mind. I already know you're not going to want any part of this problem. Good bye."

"Wait!" It was too late. She had hung up. _Attacked in a parking lot_?

"That didn't sound good." his assistant Kim commented. "What did you do?"

"I didn't call her all week—and then she got mugged last night." _At least I hope that was all that happened_.

"What?! Is she okay?" Kim swiveled in her chair to face him.

"I don't know. She shut me out."

"Of course she shut you out." Kim shook her head. "Go. Get out of here. Buy a huge bouquet of flowers, and don't fight back, whatever she says about you. Then when you go out this weekend, buy her something nice. Something expensive."

"Like what?"

"Like diamond earrings or something."

"I don't think she's the kind of person who can be bought off like that."

"Jeeze, but you can be an idiot. You're not buying her off. Buying her off would be getting her a Mercedes because she caught you cheating on her. This is symbolic, to let her know you value her. And if she doesn't like diamonds then get her something else. Go. Or find yourself another girlfriend."

"We'll cover for you," offered Matt, who had been silent up until then.

"But…"_ All this will be waiting for me on Monday morning_, he realized. "Yeah. This counts as a personal emergency. I'm gone." He reached for his briefcase.

Hey, it's brief but it's fast! Thanks MimiBReal, Elthiel, Vampyro, and welcome back, MissJanet! (PR to FL, wow.)


	28. An Awkward Moment

. 

_Perhaps it's better this was, Claire thought as she put her phone down. A clean break, rather than watch him go through contortions trying to escape when he finds out I'm pregnant, and who or what it is I'm carrying. Better all around_. She dipped a carrot stick in a bowl of hummus and ate it. _ No point in trying to restrain my eating anymore. And Mrs. Niu will be here soon_.

She was at home. There had been no point in going to work, and her superior had accepted her reasons for calling in sick. In fact, he had been generous, telling her to take all the time she needed. It was the perfect opening: she explained that she was pregnant, and her doctor didn't want her to expose herself or her baby to the dangers inherent in working with potential sources of contagion such as corpses and tissue samples.

The Family and Medical Leave Act was on her side, and she had plenty of paid sick leave— several weeks worth, in fact— so she braced herself for an argument…which didn't come. He asked the usual questions, and told her to contact the Human Resources department for some forms she would have to fill out, and that was all. She was off from work for the foreseeable future.

Unfortunately, the foreseeable future extended exactly one month. Samara moved within her—there was no mistaking that feeling for indigestion or imagination any more. _At least I know what she wants now. She wants to be alive again. But does she want a real second chance, or is she coming back just to make as many people suffer as she can? _

_I don't know. _

_I don't know. _

She crossed her apartment and took a book of mythology off its shelf. I _need to brush up on my demigods_, she thought, opening it up. _And on their mothers_…

* * *

Rachel Keller parked her car across the street from the complex where Claire Winslow lived, and gathered up the bouquet of cheerful gerbera daisies and the cranberry nut bread she had bought at Whole Foods, as a peace offering and a friendly gesture both. _I got her into this. I made her watch the tape. I'm going to have to get over my dislike and do everything I can to help her. _

Glancing at her watch as she slid out of her car and locked it, she noted that she had two hours until Aiden's school let out. _That will give me an excuse to leave if things get nasty. Dr. Winslow doesn't have to know Pamela's picking him up for me. _

At the corner, Rachel found herself waiting for the light to change while standing behind an Asian family—an older woman with her grown son and daughter—or daughter in law, it was hard to tell. The mother wore a kimono jacket in shades of rose, beige, green and brown, and she carried a bunch of burgundy chrysanthemums. The man was exceptionally tall, with a 'startled porcupine' hairstyle and thin round glasses; the girl was classically beautiful, or would have been if she weren't so annoyed.

"What made you go and get new frames?" she asked the man peevishly.

"Someone whose judgment I trust told me they were outdated and made me look socially inept," he replied. The light turned to green and the 'Walk' sign came on; the four of them started across.

"You are socially inept," she shot back. "That's why they were so perfect for you."

"Meg," said the older woman warningly. "Why don't you go and study in the coffee shop while we pay our visit? This doesn't concern you, and you have exams coming up, do you not?"

"So I'm just the chauffeur?" the girl demanded. "Fine, fine." She stomped off down the street while mother and son continued into the complex—and wound up right where Rachel was going.

"I'm sorry. Are we in your way?" asked the man, stopping in front of Dr. Winslow's door.

"I don't know. I'm here to see Dr, Winslow, so—."

"So are we." said the older woman. "Is she expecting you? Go ahead and ring, Martin."

At that moment, from the opposite direction, the blond man Rachel recalled as having been with Dr. Winslow at Shelter Mountain appeared, looking out of breath and carrying an enormous bouquet of roses. "Excuse me—!" he panted.

Dr. Winslow opened her door ."Oh, Mrs Niu! I'm so glad..." Then she saw the the clot of people who were waiting to see her. Her eyes widened when she took in Rachel, and widened further when she saw the blond man, but not as much as theirs did.

Whether she hadn't any clothing which would conceal her belly, or whether she just wasn't bothering, the effect was the same. She wasn't at the 'Oh, my god' stage, but she was undeniably pregnant, her belly hoisting up the front of her dress. Her slim arms and legs made her expanding midsection and swollen breasts look even larger in contrast.

"Oh." she said. "Isn't this awkward." She sounded as bitter as a pinch of alum. "I suppose you had better all come in.

* * *

Hey! Thank you, Overthemoon, MimiBReal, Sabejias, Elthiel and Vampyro! Hope you like... 


	29. Even More Awkward

Claire held the door so the four of them could enter her apartment. "Introductions first. Mrs. Niu, this is Rachel Keller. She's a reporter for the Intelligencer, and she found Samara Morgan's body. I have no idea what she's doing here."

"I'm here because I know what happened to you last night." Rachel began.

"Then you can leave now. I have nothing to say to the press." Claire cut in.

"I'm not here as a reporter. I'm here as a friend."

"We're not friends." Claire looked at her with wide eyes in which the pupils had almost outgrown the irises, too frayed for pretence. "We don't like each other."

"I know that's been the case until now, but you saved Aiden's life. That ought to make me your friend forever."

Claire shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her other hand crept to the gentle swell of her belly. "All right, you can stay. I wouldn't get too close to me if I were you. I could be dangerous. Now to continue with the introductions.

"That's Andrew Strathmore, he's with the DA's office. I have no idea what relationship we have.

"Ms. Keller, this is Mrs. Niu, who knows something about ghosts and spirits, and Dr. Martin Takahashi, her son, who is also my colleague and friend. Drew—well, you heard what I told her."

"W-wait," Drew stuttered, "That's not—I mean, that has to predate me."

Claire understood him. "Of course it isn't yours." A dark bubble of laughter broke her calm surface. "It isn't even mine."

"What, you mean this is a surrogate or a donor or—." He looked from one to the other, looking very young and worried, a choirboy in a business suit.

"No. It's Samara. That's what she meant by 'Seven weeks'. Seven weeks from conception to birth. Rebirth."

"That's not possible." protested Drew, while Martin asked simultaneously, "How?"

"The virus. Please, everyone, make yourselves at home. I'll get a vase of water for those flowers.

She disappeared, leaving everyone to exchange awkward glances in her living room.

_She sure has a lot of books_, Rachel thought, as she looked around. Although smaller than Rachel's own place, it was neater and better decorated, with walls the color of green tea ice cream, a beige sofa and love seat with an armchair in a coordinating print.—but then, she didn't have any kids to mess it up.

Not yet.

The older woman, Mrs. Niu, took the initiative, crossing the room to the sofa and sitting down. "I am too old to keep standing without a reason," she declared, "and please do sit, Martin. You shouldn't loom so." Her son took the chair, leaving Rachel and Drew to choose from the sofa or loveseat.

_How can things like this seem so important in a crisis?_ Rachel slung her purse into the corner of the loveseat and sat down. _Four adults hanging around like this was a game of musical chairs. None of us knows what we ought to do._ Claire's boyfriend, or whatever he was, took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from Mrs. Niu, leaving a space for Claire in between.

Claire reappeared, setting a large vase with all the flowers combined on a shelf near the window, and then brought a tray of healthy snacks over to the coffee table. "I am acting as normally as I can," she told the four of them in ordinary everyday tones, "because if I lose it we won't get anywhere."

She took the seat in between Mrs. Niu and Drew, without looking at him. "Now, to get everybody on the same page. Three weeks ago, I watched a video tape made by a ghost which carried a virus, a virus which contained human DNA. I was ovulating that day; thinking back, I remember that I bumped into a table, and it hurt. The ovary that's active gets sore, you see. Not every woman has that symptom." Claire looked at her hands, twisting in her lap, and made an effort to keep them still, her knuckles turning white. "Not that it matters. I remembered it, that's all.

"The virus spread through my system. It's my theory that as it spread, the virus invaded my egg cell, and did what viruses do—replaced my DNA with its own, and told the cell to reproduce it. Whatever this virus is, it's not a normal disease. It's controlled by Samara. She could move magnetic particles on a video tape to produce images and sounds over twenty years after her death. I don't suppose a few chromosomes would be too difficult for her to manage.

"The virus must spread very rapidly, because by the time the video was over, and she called me—she already knew. 'Seven weeks.' That's about four and a half times the normal rate of development."

"D-do you know that for certain?" Martin leaned forward, his cheeks suffused with red. "Do you have proof?"

"Before I left the hospital, I had an amniocentesis. They used a giant needle to take a small sample of the amniotic fluid to check for genetic abnormalities. I also requested the results be tested against my own DNA—and that of the corpse from the well. That won't be carried out by the hospital, but at an independent lab."

"That's a good idea," Martin replied, "but with the backlog of DNA tests, if you are correct, you're likely to give birth before the results are in."

"According to the ultrasound, this is a four month fetus. If I give birth to a full-term baby in one month, that will be proof enough. Any other questions?" She bowed her head and rested it on her hands.

"Yes." Drew spoke up. "What happened last night?"

"Last night...Last night I went to the store because of ice cream cravings. I should have known better than to go out that late, but I went. On the way back, I was attacked and chloroformed in the parking lot behind the building. When I came to, I was in Seattle General's emergency room, where I learned I tore off my attacker's face with my teeth before I pounded his head into a jelly against the ground. Three people had to pull me off him. Then I very calmly came along with the police to the hospital, where I told the attending physician, a woman I have known since medical school, that I was pregnant with a girl I intended to name Samara. I showered and went through an ultrasound—it must have been hours before I came to myself again."

"But you weren't hurt?" Drew asked.

"No. I half-killed a man, I blacked out for several hours, I'm pregnant with a reincarnated demi-god who kills people, and I'm facing single motherhood, but I'm not _hurt_. Not as such."

"Can't you abort it? Her, I mean?" Rachel sat up and addressed Claire.

"I don't know. Sure, legally I have the right, but what will she do if I try to have her aborted? Will she kill the clinic workers then, or seven days later? How angry will she be? Not to mention that I have always told myself there are no circumstances under which I would ever consider abortion."

"I don't think ordinary rules can apply in this case." Drew said, from her side.

"I agree." She turned to him, looked him straight in the eye for the first time. "So you can go now. No one in the world would blame you. I'm pregnant, but the child isn't yours and there's no kind of commitment between us. You don't want children until you've been married a few years first, and that's fine." Her voice was growing thin and strained. "Whatever I decide to do, I will do on my own. I'll manage."

"No! This isn't fine. I screwed up this past week, but—I don't want to get into this with other people here. I'm not going anywhere."

"That's what you say now." She said it softly and sadly.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I don't know yet. That's why I asked Mrs. Niu to come. I've been reading about demi-gods, and what I've read hasn't made me feel any better. Their mothers die too often for my liking. And Sammie—Samara—when's she's reincarnated, how much will she remember of her old life?"

"Ordinarily," the older woman said, "a child remembers very little of their past lives, and what they do retain fades away over time, as new memories crowd out the old."

"'Ordinarily', you say. What about in this case?" Claire's eyes appealed for some scrap of hope.

"I have no idea. I thought you were pregnant with your own child. I never imagined anything of this sort. She might retain everything, including her powers. She might remember nothing and bring nothing with her—but I fear this may not be case."

"I was afraid you were going to say that. What about giving birth to her—will I survive that?"

"I don't know that either. I'm sorry, very sorry."

"Here is where I come in." Rachel spoke up. "I tracked Samara down once. I can do it again. She was adopted from somewhere, and the adoption records will still exist. I'll find out who her birthparents were, and I'll go along with you to question them."

"I can be of assistance there as well," Drew sat up. "You'll need a court order to get access to the records, and then you'll be assigned a court-appointed intermediary—if you can convince them you have the right to see the records in the first place. There are a few judges who will look the other way for me."

"I wouldn't want you to do anything illegal." Claire said.

"There's legal and there's illegal and then there's morally right." he told her. "I won't do anything wrong."

"I can't—maybe we should talk about that later," she replied. "I wish I could fall asleep and wake to find this was all a dream."

"Claire," Mrs. Niu said, reaching out to take Claire's hands in hers. "I know I don't seem to be a great deal of help to you now, but my Sight extends further than my knowledge. Don't despair. This child loves you."

"She loved her other mother, too." Claire said in answer. "It didn't seem to help."

* * *

A/N: It took a while, but it's here! Thanks to Rynadin (love The Eye pictures--and check out my profile for some other of my favorites!) Cherrysmex (you're too kind), Vampyro (hope you're better), Elthiel (I'll try to do better--hope you like this chapter) Hopeless-EO-shipper--( Sadako babysitting Samara--hee-hee, what an idea!) And Sabejas (all kinds of emotions in this one) Enjoy! 


	30. Gallstones?

" Then perhaps this will help. Acknowledge the truth: You love this child already." Mrs. Niu said. "You may say what you like about how her other mother loved her, too, but you love Sammie. You love her for who _she_ is. You _want_ her."

Claire looked down at herself and shut her eyes. "God help me." she whispered. "but I do." Silvery drops squeezed past her lids and left dark circles in her lap

"It is the uncertainty which frightens you. Dwelling on your fears will only exacerbate them." Mrs. Niu concluded. She looked to Drew, sitting on Claire's other side. "You and she are close, I take it. Encourage her to think of other things, at least until the investigation can begin again."

"I'll try." he said.

"Then we should go now, that you may begin." She nodded to her son, patted Claire's hand, and stood.

Rachel shrugged. "Guess I'll be going, too. I have to go pick up my son. I'll call you Monday, so we can plan our next move, okay?"

"A-all right." Claire took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "Thank you all for coming."

"You're quite welcome. Call if there is any change. Oh!" Mrs. Niu stopped on her way out the door, and turned to Claire once more. "One thing more. As your time grows near, Samara's spirit will be bound ever closer to its new home, until she can no longer leave it."

"Does that mean that eventually people won't be seeing her all over the place?"

"That is correct. Although it was you who was in control last night, it was her strength which overcame the drug. I hope this may help. _You_ were in control. Not she."

"Thank you, Mrs. Niu. See you, Martin. The glasses look good, by the way."

"Thanks! My sister hates them."

"Of course she does." said his mother, sounding very wise. "Megumi doesn't want other women to find you attractive. Out the door now."

"Huh?" Martin sounded perplexed. "Why should she care?"

"I'll tell you later, dear. It was nice meeting you…"

When they were gone, Drew closed and locked the door. "What was all that about his sister?"

"That was something I hadn't thought of." Claire said, still sounding down. "She's only his stepsister, she's not related to him by blood. His mother married her father. I suppose that's one way of making sure your daughter-in-law was brought up the right way…"

"Oh. Still seems kind of weird to me."

"It isn't what I'd go for, either. Excuse me, I'm going to go wash my face."

While she was absent from the room, Drew paced a little, swinging his arms and smacking his fist into his palm. Realizing what he was doing, he paused. _Who do I want to hit?_

_Well, there is that guy from last night. But it sounds as though he was thoroughly taken care of. I don't want to hit Claire. Or Sammie. The only person that leaves for me to be mad at…_

_Is me._

_Damn! What am I going to do? She's pregnant, but I have nothing to do with it. Yet I can't walk away. Not from this. Damn. What am I going to do?_

_Fix things between us for a start. Then take her mind off things, cheer her up. Maybe go out for dinner or something._

When she returned, he said, "Claire, can we sit down again. I have something to tell you."

"All right." Instead of melting against him, she sat almost as stiffly as if they were strangers. Not good.

"Here it is. I screwed up this week, and I'm sorry. I am very, very sorry, and I am never going to do that again. I know better now. When I'm not in touch with you, terrible things happen, and I'm left scrambling to catch up. I should have been there when you went out to the grocery store, walking with you—or better yet, I should have gone instead. If you had been hurt or worse, I—I'm in love with you." He blurted the last part out.

Her lips quirked up a little.

"No. Don't say anything yet." He held up his hand. "You can have the floor in a moment, I promise. You remember how you and I met? I remember every moment. Westerfield was missing, he went into Kuttner's house and never came out again. We knew Kuttner had done it, but the cops and forensics went all over that house inside and out, knocking holes in the walls and digging up the foundations, and never found a thing. So I'm sweating because if I can't get the charge to stick, Kuttner's going to walk, and he was an evil son-of-a-bitch.

"Then you came over with a handful of green pebbles and this half-smile on your face. You were in a lab coat, you had smudges all over you, you were sweaty, but to me you looked—You held out these rocks, and said, 'I'm Claire Winslow, I'm with the Medical Examiner's office. Say hello to Mr. Westerfield.'

"All I could say was, 'What?'

"You explained. 'These are human gallstones. I found them at the bottom of a barrel which used to hold sulfuric acid. Gallstones don't dissolve in sulfuric acid. They're the only part of the body which doesn't. According to his widow, Westerfield's gallbladder was like a sock full of gravel.'

"I looked at you, and I realized I knew everything about you and nothing, at the same time. I knew you had a wicked sense of humor, you were determined, you were good at what you did, and very brainy. Some of your hair was stuck to your cheek, because you'd been crawling around barrels and got hot, and I wanted to reach out and smooth it back, but I didn't dare. So I just said, 'I would say I wanted to kiss you for this, but I'm afraid that would be sexual harassment.'

"You said, 'What a shame! I'll go see these are bagged and labeled properly.'

"All I could do was watch you go. So at the same time that we got Kuttner—you got me, even if you didn't know it I wanted to ask you out then, but I didn't dare. Partly because if you said no, it would have made the trial awkward, but mostly just because I was afraid."

"God, what a story!" Claire shook her head, but now there was a hint of a smile, a real smile around her lips.

"Yeah, I know. It's an original way to meet, you have to admit that. What I'm saying here is, I remember every word. I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. I also know I didn't call all week, and while there isn't any excuse for that, I have learned my lesson. As this is my first offense, is there any chance I could be let off with a warning this time—or at least a suspended sentence?"

He waited, his eyes searching her face as she thought about it. "I think I have to give you this one, partly out of guilt. I remember thinking, 'What a shame he isn't taller.' Pretty superficial of me, wasn't it?"

"Hey, I forgive you."

A/N: Hope you enjoy the make-up scene! Hello to MimiBReal (this one's for you) Vampyro (glad you're better) We all have those moments, Hopeless-EO-Shipper, and welcome back Elthial! Thanks to all of you!


	31. Feathers, an Interlude

Sunday Afternoon:

"You don't have to buy me anything!" Claire protested, but her eyes and her tone of voice said she wouldn't absolutely refuse. "Anyhow, I already have a pair of diamond earrings, and they have a lot of sentimental value. My folks gave them to me when I graduated medical school." Her mouth did something sad. "Hmm. My folks…"

"Oh. Uh, yeah." Claire talked about her family now and then. He knew they lived in Spokane, and that her father was a retired dentist and her mother taught music in elementary school. She had a sister who had married a landscape architect and now lived back east in New York, somewhere near Albany. "Have you figured out what you're going to tell them?"

"No, but I've decided to wait until I know how it's all going to turn out. Let's not talk about this now. It's been such a lovely weekend."

So it had. They had made up on Friday night, making love very carefully, and holding one another. Saturday it had rained; a good day for staying in, watching videos and reading. Sunday was beautiful, crisp and clear.

Autumn still had some glories left in her—skies drenched in intense blue, trees afire with tenacious leaves, and temperatures which had just a snap of winter to come. They were walking around the shopping district, having just left a gourmet food store with their purchases, exotic mushrooms, fragrant bread, apples and cheese.

"Yes." Drew looked at her. Her hair contrasted vividly with the sky. She looked much better than she had on Friday afternoon. Her color was better, and she was happier, more relaxed. She had found clothing in her wardrobe which concealed her condition—up to a point, anyway. Her belly was already larger. "Well, what about here?"

He stopped in front of an upper end boutique, one which favored natural fibers. The window display featured an array of garments in silks and wools, saturated fall colors like garnet, olive, and pumpkin. They also had a jewelry case in the window.

"I like that cardigan," Claire commented, looking at a mohair garment crocheted in shades of purple, teal, and peridot. "It can't hurt to have a look around. Do you mind?" She looked at him.

"Not at all," he said, and held the door for her.

"Can I help you?" A smiling saleswoman stepped forward.

"Yes. There's a sweater in your window I'd like to try on." Claire replied. "Drew, can you take these for me?"

She handed over her bags, and for the first time, he was left to perform the husbandly role of waiting while she shopped. Wandering over to the jewelry case, he heard the saleswoman exclaim "Oh, you're expecting! How wonderful. When are you due?"

"Two months," was Claire's answer, and only someone who knew her as he did would have noticed the slight hesitation she put into that reply.

_That's not a bad answer_, he thought. _She doesn't look big enough to be due in one month…What am I going to do? This is moving way too fast for me._

_But it's moving even faster for Claire. _

_And I promised I was going to be there for her. What do I mean by that? God knows I never wanted to rush into fatherhood, but if we stay together the only logical place where this relationship can go is marriage. And I do want to marry Claire. This is right._

_In one month she may be dead. Worst case scenario: Claire dead and an evil child strangely empowered loose in the world. Best case scenario: Claire is fine, Sammie is fine, and then what?_

_What a mess._

"Is there something here you'd like to see, sir?" Another of the shop's employees startled him, and he came back to himself with a start, realizing he had been staring into the jewelry case for several minutes without seeing a thing.

"Yes. Just a moment."

"All right," she nodded, standing by at attention.

_What if all of this had already happened before Claire and I had ever met? Suppose she'd already had Sammie? Dr. Winslow walks over with a handful of gallstones, we meet, and somebody walked by and asked her how she was doing since she had the baby. What would I have done then? _

"Can I see that one, please?" He pointed to a delicate necklace toward the back of the case.

"Of course. Isn't it a lovely piece? Fourteen karat gold, hand made, with moonstone beads…" She laid the necklace out on a velvet pad.

He reached out and slipped his fingers under the chain, allowing it to puddle up in his hand. "It's not heavy at all."

"No, it's very light. It's comfortable to wear, and so beautiful." It was, and it was also the sort of thing he could see Claire wearing. The faceted moonstones flashed blue in the light.

"Hang on a sec. Honey?" He raised his voice.

"Be right with you. I'm sorry I'm taking so long—are you terribly bored?"

"No, not at all. There's something here I'd like you to see, that's all."

"Okay, just give me a moment."

_What would I have done? Asked her something clever like, 'Oh, are you married?' Well, maybe I wouldn't have been that obvious about it. Would having a child make that much of a difference?_

Claire appeared from the back of the store, wearing the sweater over a long, loose teal dress with a high waist, one of those styles which didn't so much conceal a pregnancy as make even the slimmest woman who wore it look pregnant. "Do you like the outfit?"

"Yes. It looks good with your hair. What do you think of this?" He held up the necklace.

"Oh, that's nice." She reached out and took it. Fine chain linked realistically detailed feathers together, with the moonstone beads spaced in between. "This is beautiful work. Usually metal feathers look more like daggers—you know, those dreamcatcher earrings. These look so delicate."

"Here, let me help you." She turned around so he could work the catch at the back of her neck, and he tickled her nape, just to make her laugh.

She winked at him, and stepped over to the nearest mirror. It was fairly long, and draped elegantly over the teal dress. "Oh, I love it! How much is it?"

"You don't need to know that." He put on as serious a face as he could. "Do you think you would wear it?"

"I should say so! Seriously, though."

"Uh-uh. Not going to tell. Or aren't you going to let me give you something? I want to, you know."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to." He was enjoying the pleasure on her face. Kim called this one right.

"Thank you." She leaned down and kissed him. "If you'll take this off for me, I'll go change back into my things."

"Meet you up here." He handed the necklace and his credit card to the saleswoman. "You don't have to wrap it, but if you have a box for it, that'd be great."

"I do. Thank you, sir."

After Claire returned and purchased the cardigan and the dress, they went back out into the afternoon.

"What now?" Claire asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

"How about we put this stuff in the car, and then we go to the neighborhood hardware store on the next block over?" He wondered if he ought to tell her the conclusion he had reached

_Even if she already had a child, it wouldn't have made any difference. I'd have adjusted to the idea, and been as good a father as I could have._

"Why? What do you need at the hardware store?"

"Remember my house's all white interior? What if we pick up some of those paint sample cards and go home to see which ones look best?"

"All right." _That smile of hers_…

"Claire—What ever happens, tomorrow, or in six months or twenty years or whatever, I'm happy right now. I'm really happy."

She stopped. "I am, too." Then they had to stop and hug in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing other people to walk around them

_Maybe there are some things you don't have to say_.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter, things start moving again! Thanks to Sabejias—Aiee! Am I being too obvious? Actually. I hadn't planned on killing Mrs. Niu. She's safe from me.

Also, thank you to Vampyro and Hopeless-EO-Shipper!


	32. Someone at the Bus Stop

Monday Morning:

Drew met his assistant, Kim, at the door to their office suite. "Morning" she greeted him as she untangled her keys from her purse strap and unlocked the door. "What's that you have there?"

Drew raised the tray of coffee cups which he balanced in one hand and hoisted the bakery bag in the other. "My treat this morning. Don't get too excited; these are not donuts, they're multi-grain muffins with dried apricots and stuff in them."

"Then I take it Dr. Winslow likes her diamond earrings?" She took the bag of muffins so he could get in the door.

"Yes and thank you, although it's actually a necklace. We have worked out our difficulties and come to an agreement. I'm going to call more frequently, and if by chance I don't she is to call me up and cuss me out. Now," he paused, setting down the coffee, as Kim hung up her jacket. "There's something I have to share with you, because it's going to become too obvious to conceal. Claire is pregnant."

"Hold on a sec—."

"I know what you're thinking, and you're right. It isn't mine. Not genetically, anyway, and whether or not I'm going to wind up being 'Daddy' remains to be seen. It's all a work in progress."

Kim let out a long whistle. "Is the genetic father in the picture?"

"No."

"Okay. I guess—all I can say is that I'll be hoping for the best for you. Both of you—er, all of you."

"Thank you. Now, first things first. I need to call in a favor from Judge Renner. Can you get his assistant on the phone?"

Getting through to the judge took several minutes, but eventually Drew said, "Hello, Ralph. How's your golf game?...Great! Glad to hear it. Now. There's something a friend of mine needs, but can't get through the official channels.

"She needs to see the adoption records for Samara Morgan…"

Later that day:

The heavy-set woman who met Rachel and Claire at the door to the Adoption Registry's archives was somber to the point of grimness. "I take it you're Ms. Keller and Dr. Winslow?" At their nods, she pushed the door open behind her. "Please come in." Polite words delivered in a tone more appropriate to profanity.

"Sit down." Two empty chairs faced a desk with a file folder, centered with mathematical precision. The name plaque read 'Joya Dunwoodie' It had a happy daisy sticker on one corner, a stark contrast to the woman's mien.

They sat; she slid behind her desk. "We're here about the Sama—." Rachel began, but 'Joya Dunwoodie' cut her off.

"I know why you're here. We'll get to that. There's something I have to tell you first. The order to unseal this adoption record came down from the senior family court judge. That's Ralph Renner. I was told to permit you to read this, no questions asked. I don't know who you are or who you know, but it is illegal. I don't like it.

"I don't like power. I don't like influence. I don't like people doing favors for their friends. I deeply resent being ordered to break the law for you. I could refuse to show these records to you, and there is not a thing you or Judge Renner or even the Governor of the state of Washington could do to me, legally. I could take this to the press and raise such a stink that you could never scrub yourselves clean."

Rachel and Claire exchanged worried glances as the woman continued. "There is no earthly consideration which could get me to unlawfully open these records. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Claire started to stand. "I'm very sorry for—."

"I am going to give you access, Dr. Winslow—you are Doctor Winslow, am I right?"

"Yes."

"I just want you to understand why I am about to compromise myself here."

"Ms. Dunwoodie, you said 'earthly consideration'" Rachel leaned forward. "What about an _unearthly_ consideration? Could that get you to compromise your principles?"

She nodded. "You have it in one guess, Ms. Keller. I don't want to die. I was on the verge of telling the judge where he could put his order when I learned whose record was involved."

"Samara Morgan." Claire stated. "What did she do?"

"Neither of you are the least surprised by this. Somehow I didn't think you would be." Joya Dunwoodie's hands searched her desk and found a pencil. "Damn. I wish I had a cigarette.

"It happened a couple of weeks ago, about. My washing machine was broken, and I couldn't wait until Monday to do my laundry, so I threw everything in a basket and went out to the Laundromat. You're grown women, you know how long laundry takes, when you've got two, three loads to do. I wanted to get it done before the sky opened up, because the forecast was for rain. There's a bench at the bus stop right out in front of the shopping center, and as I got out of my car and got the basket out of the back, I saw someone sitting there. Somebody small and wearing white. There were half a dozen other people there, too, so I thought nothing of it. Just a bunch of people waiting for the bus, that was all.

"I went in and did my laundry. It was nearly nine at night by the time I was done. The Laundromat was closing down, too. The only other places open in the shopping center were the Chinese restaurant and the liquor store.

"When I came out and put my stuff in the back seat on my car, she was still there. I could see it was a little girl, where before there were too many people in the way. And she was all alone. So I went over and I asked her, 'Honey, are you here all by yourself?' Whoever she belonged to could have been in getting their take-out or their liquor.

"She nodded. Up close, I could see she didn't look so well—shadows under her eyes, messy hair. And she smelled like mildew had gotten into her clothes. Whoever was supposed to be taking care of her wasn't doing their job. 'You been here long?'

"She shrugged. 'Is anybody coming to get you?'

"She shook her head. 'What's your name, sweetie?'

"Finally, she spoke to me. 'Samara Morgan'. The name sounded familiar. I did read your article, Ms. Keller, but I hadn't memorized it. I looked her up on the internet when I got home.

"'Where's your mommy, Samara?'

"'I have two mommies.' she said. Maybe she said she'd _**had**_ two mommies. I could have heard wrong.

"I thought she might mean her mother was pursuing an alternative lifestyle. 'Two mommies who live together?'

"'No, the mommy who carried me in her tummy and the mommy who wanted a baby.'

"'Which one do you live with?'

"'I don't live with either of them anymore.'

"'Do you live with your daddy?'

"No. Will you help find my mommy?'

"Yes. You better believe it. I'm going to help you find your mommy. But I need help. Samara, honey, I'm going to get somebody to come help us, okay?'

"I wasn't going to leave her, but I didn't want to just drive off with her, either. I needed the police. I didn't have any juice left in my cell phone, though, and the phone by the bus stop had been vandalized. I would have gone in either the Chinese place or the liquor store, but then the rain started. It came down cold and hard, driven by a cruel wind. So I thought, forget this. I'll just take the kid to the police station."

Neither Rachel nor Claire could move.

"'Come with me, sweetheart,' I told her, and she got up and followed me. I buckled her in the back seat, just in case, because the airbag in front can kill a child. 'We're going to go see some people about finding your mommy.'

"'Okay. I'm going to have another mommy soon.'

"'You might be right about that.' I was thinking, if somebody abandoned that child there, she is going to have a new mother soon. A foster mother. Social Services will get involved.

"'I'll be a baby again, and come out of her tummy.'

"What could I say to that childish fantasy? 'Wouldn't that be nice?'

"We were getting near the Wilson bridge, and it was hard to see. The rain was coming down in buckets. I looked in my rearview mirror—and I saw a corpse."

Joya Dunwoodie's eyes shut, spasmodically. "I smelled it, too. She was slimy and rotting, and when she knew I saw her as she was, she leapt at me. She grabbed me by the throat, and her hands were like wire.

"I lost control of the car. We went across two lanes of traffic, off the road, and right into the river.

"'You have to help find my mommy.' Her hands were digging into my neck, and water was coming into the car. My feet were getting wet. 'Say you'll help find my mommy!'

"'I will,' I promised her. 'I swear.'

"'Say it!'

"'I'll help find your mommy!' She let go."

The adoption archivist's hand rose to her throat. "I had marks there for over a week. By then, the car was filling up around my knees. I could have died, but my father got me this emergency tool for my glove compartment. It has a razor in a niche on the handle to cut a seatbelt, and a special hammer for breaking car windows. I got out. The police rescued me from the river. They got the car out the next day. No trace of her, of course. I went back to the shopping center a few days later. No one else remembers seeing her, not the Laundromat owner, nor the people who work in the other businesses there. Not even the old drunk who panhandles for money to buy his next bottle of Ripple. Nobody.

"So that is why I am going to show you Samara Morgan's adoption records. I gave my word—and somehow I think it would be a bad idea to break it." She pushed the folder across the desk.

A/N: Sorry this took so long—hope it was worth the wait. Thank you, Vampyro. Fallenagain, you are welcome under any name! Hopeless-EO-Shipper—please imagine away.

Elthial, you'll have to wait and see how her family takes it—but it will be fun evil grin . Sabejias, here's a near death for you. Who knows what will come in future chapters? Even I'm not completely sure! Karleigh, thank you for the spelling help. I don't know any Japanese beyond maybe a dozen words; moshi and okaasan are almost my limit.

Sephirotho, you read my mind (most people find that alarming) I was thinking of the 'happy end' stuff as a happy middle before the st hits the fan. Rachel and Claire will be on the trail of Samara's original birth mother, then the action will shift to Moesko Island, and after that, Claire will get some very bad news from the genetic test results. Hang in there!


	33. The Adoption File

"Ordinarily," Ms. Dunwoodie told them, as Claire reached out for the folder, "I would stay to make sure you didn't remove, alter, or deface anything in the file, but this is anything but ordinary. I am going to go have that cigarette. I will be back in fifteen minutes. What ever you do in that time, I don't want to know about it. In fact, I don't want to know anything more than I already do. I don't want to know how it started. I don't want to know how it ends. I'm not going to comment on your pregnancy, Dr. Winslow. Please don't take this as an insult, but I hope to never see either of you again in my life."

"Understood." Claire responded. "I believe fifteen minutes will be enough. Thank you."

"I'm not doing this for you." The archivist collected her purse and left the room without a backward glance.

"She's very frightened." Claire commented.

"She has reason to be," Rachel replied. "How did Samara know we would be talking to this exact woman?"

"I wish I knew." Claire opened the file.

Rachel watched as Dr. Winslow—okay, maybe she should start thinking of her as 'Claire' now— riffled quickly through the sheets.

"I'm going to start with the birth certificate," she explained. "Ah. Here it is." Her brow creased as she read. "Samara NLN—that stands for 'No Last Name'—born alive, February 8th, 1970. Female, Caucasian, black hair, blue eyes. Seven pounds, four ounces, twenty one inches long. Mother's name, Evelyn NLN. No last name for her mother, either. Nor a birthdate. Just a year. 1954. She was sixteen when Samara was born."

"And her father?" Rachel prompted.

"Unknown. Place of birth—Saint Mary Magdalene's Shelter for Women." For some reason, Claire sounded troubled by that. "I wonder…"

"What's wrong with that?" Rachel asked.

"If I recall correctly, the Magdalene Institutions were terrible places. At least they were in Ireland."

"How do you know?"

Claire reached up and fingered a lock of her orangey-red hair significantly. "Where do you think I got green eyes, freckles, and red hair? I'm at least three-quarters Irish. In fact, my mother was born Mary Katherine O'Brian and raised Catholic.

"I won't go into the details, but after her younger brother died—committed suicide, actually—she left the Church and became anti-Catholic. She keeps up with all the revelations of wrongdoings in the Church—pedophile priests, cover-ups, scandals. I know she's mentioned the Magdalene Institutions. If there was or is one in Washington state, she'll know all about it, the good and the bad."

"I could look it up in the newspaper database." Rachel offered. "The more we know about it, the better. I'm free Wednesday, if you're thinking of going there."

"Unless there's something in this file which points us elsewhere." Claire turned back to the pages she had skipped. "Adoption application forms. Reports by the counselor, by Samara's physician. Essays the Morgans wrote about themselves and their commitment to parenthood by adoption.…"

"Can I see those?"

"Sure." She passed Rachel the essays.

Rachel read them over. "They come across as normal and positive." she observed. "But why wouldn't they be? At this point in time, they might not even have met Samara yet. They don't know what they're taking into their home."

"All adoptive parents come across as normal and positive, even under the closest scrutiny. Otherwise they wouldn't get to be adoptive parents. Even back in 1970, there was a very careful, thorough screening process that prospective parents had to go through. Some adopted children wind up with parents who abuse them, molest them and murder them, no matter what is done to try and prevent it."

"You don't have to talk to me like that." Rachel said, suddenly tight-lipped.

"What do you mean?" Claire looked up, startled.

"Like you're giving a lecture. All right, you're a doctor. You're more intelligent than I am. I know that already. I've also written articles about child abuse and I researched the topic in depth. I have a brain! Don't patronize me."

"I'm sorry I came across that way." Claire said after a startled pause. "I didn't mean to."

And it was obvious she hadn't. Her bewildered, slightly hurt expression made Rachel feel guilty for her sudden outburst. "It's okay." Why did I flare up like that? "Just save the explanations for when I ask for them, all right. Is there anything else there which could be important?"

"Just a note from Samara's pediatrician. 'Does not respond appropriately to negative stimuli.'"

"All right," Rachel admitted, grudgingly. "I don't know what that means to a doctor. I need an explanation."

"Unfortunately, he didn't give one. That's all he wrote."

"I'm guessing it's a bad sign when a baby doesn't 'respond appropriately to negative stimuli'."

"It might be, if I knew what he meant."

That evening:

"Hello? Mom? Dad? If you're home, could you pick up?"

"Claire, sweetheart! How are you?"

"I'm fine, Dad." She sat back in her armchair and rubbed her burgeoning belly. _If you don't count my backache, constipation, perpetual hunger, having to pee all the time—and have I mentioned that I'm pregnant and it isn't, technically speaking, even mine?_ "How are you?"

"I ache all over," he told her, happily. "Spent all weekend in the yard. The test roses from J and P finally came, and…"

Always a gardener, now that he was retired after a long career as a dentist, her father poured his time and energy into the half-acre of land around the house where she had grown up. Not content to grow the tried and true, he acted as a test gardener and competition judge for half a dozen growers and societies, trying out new cultivars and assessing plants which were up for prizes.

"…maybe I should have left that lilac in for another year, but I have never seen a worse case of powdery mildew in my life." he finished.

"I think you did the right thing, " she replied. "It's no good having a source of contagion shedding spores all over."

"Exactly." In her mind's eye, she could see him nod, his head cocked slightly. Her father, half of the foundation of her life. "So," he said, ignorant of the sudden rush of tears in her eyes, "what about you? What have you been up to?"

"Not much. I think I might be coming to the end of my corpse-cutting career. I'm burned out on it."

"What would you do instead?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

"I could qualify for a license in pediatric psychiatry within a year." she told him. Drew had inspired her to look into it. "I'm still in the 'thinking about it' stage."

"It is in your field, in a broader sense," he thought out loud, "and no one could claim you're unfocused. But I am worried about how you just can't seem to settle down."

"Is it my fault you were such a great father?" she teased. "You and Mom sent me out into the world with impossibly high standards, what can I say? Speaking of Mom, is she available?"

"No, she's at a piano recital for her students." He replied. "Are you sure you're all right, sweetheart? You sound congested."

"Maybe a little. I really need to talk to her. Do you know when she'll be free tomorrow?"

"Let me check the calendar—it looks like she has a free period and lunch back-to-back. Eleven-fifteen to twelve-forty-five. You could probably catch her then."

"That's great, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem. Speaking of calendars, you're going to be here for Thanksgiving, am I right?"

_I hadn't even considered the holidays. Thanksgiving is less than a month away. What am I going to do, show up looking fatter than the turkey? _Under her hand, Samara shifted in her womb. "I can't say right now, Dad. I might be on call this year."

"I was afraid of that." He sighed. "Well, let us know when you find out."

"I will, Dad. I love you."

"Love you too, Claire. Bye."

* * *

Next chapter: Claire's mom sheds light on the Magdalene Institutions.

Thank you, Vampyro! There will be more badass stuff soon, when Rachel and Claire visit Saint Mary Magdalene's. The really horrifying part of it is, the Institutions were real…

The death or near death of a character we already know…Well, I'll give it some thought, Sabejias. Never know what I'll come up with!

Thanks, Hopeless-EO-Shipper! No need to apologize.


	34. The Magdalene Institutions

Claire looked at herself naked, which took a certain amount of courage under the circumstances. Standards of beauty being what they were, the only time a woman was 'allowed' to be fat was during pregnancy. Even then, there was a hint of a dirty joke about the condition, something vulgar about breasts enlarging with milk and a belly growing big and round, the navel turning inside out to make a little bump_. I need maternity clothes. None of my tops fit. My bras are digging grooves into my shoulders, and let's not even get into the subject of pants. After all, I can't get into the pants themselves…_

She'd been trying to put off buying actual maternity clothes for as long as she could. 'As long as she could' had translated into Tuesday. She was only going to get bigger, after all.

_First things first, though. It's about time to call my mother_. Putting on the underwear which came closest to fitting, then the teal dress and mohair cardigan she had picked up while shopping with Drew, she used her cell phone; no need to alert her mother to the fact that Claire wasn't at work.

"Hello, Mom?"

"Hello, hon. Your father said you were going to call. So, tell me. What's his name?"

"What's—whose name?" Just as Claire could read a child's thoughts, feelings, and motivations with Sherlock Holmes-like swiftness and precision, Mary Katherine O'Brian Winslow could read her daughter.

"My friend Judy Graham—remember her? You went to school with her daughter Stephanie. Judy was in Seattle a couple of weeks ago, and she told me she saw you walking hand in hand with a nice-looking young man. She tried to get your attention, but the two of you seemed a little too wrapped up in each other to notice the real world. Last night your father told me you weren't sure if you could make it for Thanksgiving, and instead of biting his head off when he mentioned settling down, you made a joke about it. So, what's his name?"

"Do mothers have this kind of insight into their children all their lives?" Claire stalled.

"Oh, my God. It is serious. You're thinking about motherhood!"

"Mom! Calm down! His name is Drew Strathmore, and he's a prosecutor in the District Attorney's office. We're not that serious about each other yet, but that's not why I called. I want to ask you about Saint Mary Magdalene's Shelter for Women as it was in late 1969 and 1970."

"Why?"

"It has to do with something I'm working on. This isn't official. I'm working on it with a writer friend Anyhow, about the shelter. Was it one of the Magdalene Institutions? What was it like back in 1970?"

"It was a Magdalene Institution, all right. Up until 1966 it was called The Saint Mary Magdalene Home for Fallen Women, but when the Church decided to become more what today people would call 'user-friendly', it was renamed. The attitudes and policies didn't, though. Not right away."

"That's what the Institutions were for, then? Rehabilitating fallen women?"

"No. They were for making a profit and controlling any woman they perceived as a threat to their social order. Imagine this, Claire. You're a young woman living away from home. Maybe you're working as a maid in somebody's home. You have friends, both male and female, who you like to do things with after work. You're young, and you like to listen to wild new music, like the Beatles. You wear bright colors, you laugh and flirt. Maybe your friendships are so innocent that you've never said or done a thing you wouldn't say or do at Church in front of your grandmother. Or maybe not. What you do behind closed doors is nobody's business, right?

"But someone doesn't think so, and they report you to the good Father of the local church. The next thing you know, you go in to work to find your employer sitting there with a look on her face like you tracked in dog dirt, and a strange woman with a mouth like she's been sucking lemons is with her. 'That's her,' says your employer to the woman, 'I had no idea she was _that_ sort of girl, or I wouldn't have asked her into my home.'

"'You can't always tell by looking,' says the stranger. 'She'll be taken well in hand by the sisters at the Magdalene Laundry, you can be sure of that! The wickedness will be scrubbed out of her soul. Come.' she says to you.

"'What? Wait! What did I do?' you ask. 'Let me call my mother!'

"But you don't get to make that phone call, and when they explain what you're supposed to have done, you can't believe it. The next thing you know, you're in the Magdalene Institution, where they tell you your name is now Alice, and you're going to work in the laundry.

"There are no washing machines. There are huge washtubs, hand wringers, a mangle, caustic cleansers, plenty of scalding hot water, clotheslines, drying racks and you. You and a dozen other penitents have to do all the laundry by hand. The dirty laundry comes from orphanages, prisons, hospitals, even butcher shops. You work twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days, pausing only to eat—and to pray. You are watched 24 hours a day. The walls around the Institution are twenty feet high and topped by broken glass mortared into the concrete.

"The only way out is for a relative to claim you and take responsibility for your behavior, but no one in your family knows where you are. If they ask the Church authorities, they only get lies. It is worse than a prison. You never had a trial, you receive no pay, you have no hope of parole or release. All you can do is wait for death."

"Mom, are you serious?"

"There have been books written about the Magdalene Institutions—and by objective scholars, not rabid old anti-Catholics like me. Originally they were charities aimed at helping prostitutes escape life on the streets, and participation was strictly voluntary. Some of the women they took in were sick or elderly. Having a quiet, clean safe place to sleep, nourishing food, bathing facilities, health care—and all they had to do was walk in and ask for it. They had to help run the place, true, plus attend services and prayer sessions.

"When the Church took over, the Institutions changed. They became prisons to which a woman could be sent for a lifetime of hard labor without the possibility of parole or release other than death. Plus, the offenses for which these women were sent there widened. Being pregnant out of wedlock, promiscuity—being raped, if the circumstances were considered shameful. Being too silly or too clever. Being too attractive or flirtatious. Being mentally challenged, as long as you weren't too challenged. These were for-profit businesses, and they wanted able-bodied laborers."

"Slaves, you mean." Claire stated. "What if you were an unwed mother-to-be? What could a girl like that expect?"

"She'd be treated just the same as any of the others—or worse. After all, the signs of her sin would be right out there in front of her. She'd have to repent harder. No pre-natal care, of course. No one would have educated her about what was happening to her body, or what would happen when she gave birth. She would be lucky to go to a hospital—births generally happened in-house. If complications set in, too bad."

"What would happen to the baby?"

"She wouldn't be allowed to keep it. How long it would stay with her depended on the institution—and on how long it took to wear her down, so she would sign the adoption papers. A few months, perhaps."

"Mom, the case we're interested in involves a young woman—no, a sixteen-year-old girl—who gave birth to a baby at the Magdalene Home in early 1970. All we have to go on is a first name, Evelyn, and her year of birth. No last name, and no name for the father of her baby. We know what happened to the child. Now we're trying to find the mother. We—my writer friend and I—are going to drive up there in person to investigate."

"Expect them to lie to you. They won't admit any wrongdoing, even now. Actually, that's not entirely fair of me. They don't believe they did anything wrong in incarcerating countless women without a trial, then abusing them and exploiting them. In fact, they believe they were doing the right thing— that they were working to save their souls."

"This isn't still going on, is it?"

"The Saint Mary Magdalene Shelter for Women changed its policies in the early 1970s. That's why it's still around. The last Magdalene Laundry closed its doors in Ireland in 1996. The Shelter's much warmer and fuzzier these days—or at least it puts on a good show of it.

"The deciding factor was a mysterious death which happened there in the time frame that you're interested in, December 1969. One of the penitents apparently passed out over her laundry tub and drowned. Her brother—or was it her uncle? came looking for her, and made inquiries. The state got involved, and ruled that the working conditions were hazardous. It was either comply with safety standards or shut down. Eight hour days, pre-natal care, restrictions on what they could require of the expectant mothers. The Shelter caved.

"Of course it didn't come out until later why. The girl—she was referred to as Sara M.—might have drowned, but first someone came up behind her and hit her with enough force to fracture her skull."

"Sara M.?" Claire asked, her mouth suddenly gone dry. _Sara M. is far, far, too similar to Samara.

* * *

_

A/N: Unfortunately, I did not make up the Magdalene Institutions. They were real. I didn't know much about them before.

When I first saw The Ring Two and it got to the scene in the Magdalene Shelter, I said to myself, mentally, 'Hold up! In 1970, they were not going to be that nice to a girl who's going to have an illegitimate baby. Especially if she claimed there wasn't any father. Only one girl in the history of Catholicism has ever gotten away with claiming her baby didn't have a father, and that was 2000 years ago. How would they _really_ have treated her?'

As for Sara M—well, Rachel is going to do some research, and Wednesday, she and Claire will visit the Shelter. Expect ghosts.

Thanks, MimiB.Real! If you think Claire's mom is interesting now, wait until she finds out the Big News…


	35. Sara M

Drew liked FareStart best of all his workday lunch spots, not just because of the food, which was consistently good, or the prices, which were reasonable, but most of all for good it did. The restaurant was part of a program for homeless and disadvantaged people, training them up for a career in fine cuisine, giving its students the chance to showcase their skills while raising money at the same time. Not only did FareStart help people to make better lives for themselves, the program also provided more immediate help in the form of nourishing meals. It was everything the Magdalene Institutions weren't, in so many ways.

It was also extremely popular. He'd arrived early to stake out a table for three, for Rachel was joining them, and consequently he had to suffer the nasty looks of those who weren't as prompt.

Claire appeared, looking intensely worried as she approached the table, but she explained that with one whispered word. "Bathroom!" Tossing her coat on a chair, she disappeared in the direction of the toilets.

_Pregnancy_. Drew recalled how often his sister and sisters-in-law had to go when they were expecting. He glanced over the menu, considering the special of the day, a swordfish BLT, when Claire's coat began to ring.

It wasn't actually her coat. It was her cell phone, tucked into her coat pocket. He reached over and took the phone out, planning to silence it, when he saw the caller ID. It was Claire's mother. "_We've been outed to my mother_," Claire had told him, when she had called to say she was on her way.

For the briefest moment Drew's internal angel wrestled with his inner imp, and the angel lost. He slid the phone open and answered it.

"Hello?" he said.

"Oh—I'm sorry. I was trying to reach Claire Winslow. Somehow I must have misdialed."

"This is her number," he replied. "She'll be back in a moment, I'm sure."

"Then who is this?" asked Mrs. Winslow.

"I'm Drew Strathmore."

"Ohhhh!" Mrs. Winslow made the exclamation slide up and down an octave. "Claire's…. friend. I'm her mother."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Winslow, even if it is by proxy. Claire's told me so much about you."

"Really? She's told me almost nothing about you. I know you're a prosecutor, and that's about it."

"What would you like to know? I'm thirty-five, never married, no kids. I own my house, never carry a balance on my credit cards, my teeth are good, and I took violin lessons for ten years before I quit because I wasn't Carnegie Hall material, and never would be. I am serious in my intentions toward your daughter. My shortcomings are that I'm a short smartass workaholic, and prone to obsessions."

"Really? How did the two of you meet?" she inquired.

"It was like this…" He explained about the murder case which lacked a corpse and the handful of human gallstones.

Mrs. Winslow laughed at the appropriate places. When he was finished, she said. "That's better. You were a little too forthright to be sincere at the start, but you told that story convincingly. And it sounds like Claire."

"I like to be upfront about things. It disconcerts people; they don't expect to hear the truth. Plus it helps that I have no shame." He glanced toward the bathroom, watching for Claire to return.

"No shame at all?"

"None whatsoever." he assured her.

"So do you wear boxers or briefs?" riposted Claire's mother.

"Mrs. Winslow!" he said in mock outrage. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Shall I just ask Claire? I'm assuming she knows." she returned. "Come on, how do you think I got to be Claire's mother?"

"Uh, you could do that." was his reply. "No comment otherwise on my part."

" Very tactful of you. You say you're serious about Claire. Does that mean we can expect the two of you for Thanksgiving?"

_Danger zone! I sincerely doubt Claire wants to show up for Thanksgiving looking like she's smuggling a watermelon under her clothes!_ "We haven't discussed it yet. Let me answer with another question, Mrs. Winslow. Would you rather we came for Thanksgiving—or for Christmas?"

"Um…Good question. If I have to choose, I'd say Christmas. But why don't you call me Mom?"

"Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't say it if I weren't."

"Well, then…Mom, I'll have to talk to Claire about the holidays…"

At that moment he looked up to see Claire standing over him. "That's my—Are you talking to _my_ mother on _my phone_?"

"Do you mind? I'm the middle of an important discussion here." he sniffed. "As I was saying, Mom…"

Claire snatched the phone away. "Mom—? It is you! Why are-Yes, he is nice, that's not the—I'll call you back. What are you doing?" she asked Drew.

"You were the one who left it in your coat pocket. You can't expect someone to not answer a ringing phone. It's against human nature."

That was when Rachel happened upon them, while they were teasing one another over the issue of cell phones and mothers and holidays, swatting one another playfully, like children, and it caused something soft and painful to twist into a knot in her chest. Noah was gone—and if she were honest with herself, their relationship had never been quite like Claire and Drew's.

For example, she could not imagine Drew ever calling Claire an 'uptight bitch' and meaning it seriously. And when she had gotten pregnant with Aiden—a birth control accident, truth be told—Noah's first reaction had been, '_That's great, Rae. Why don't you tell the father?_' Yet here was Drew Strathmore, calm and steady in the face of something unimaginable.

_What did I get wrong?_ she wondered. But an unpleasant voice at the back of her head answered: M_aybe it would have helped if you and Noah hadn't met at a pot party, sharing a joint. Maybe it would have helped if you hadn't fallen for him because he was the handsomest guy you'd ever met. Maybe it would have helped if you hadn't insisted on a huge white wedding with all the trimmings_.

It didn't help that she recognized the voice as her own. "Hi." she interrupted. "You said to look into the case of 'Sara M.' I've got a ton of printout here."

"Oh. Hello." Claire sobered up and sat up straight. "Sorry. Please, sit down."

Rachel did, taking out the folder. "I tracked 'Sara M.' back a ways. Here's the first mention of her in the papers."

Reading aloud, the reporter told them. "August 17, 1969. 'Four Arrested For Vagrancy; Evidence of Drugs Seized At Scene. Hippie Lifestyle Will Not Be Tolerated, Says Lawman' I'll just read the important parts…. Sheriff Braunbaum, responding to reports of transients squatting on a local beach yesterday evening discovered four young people in their mid-teens to early twenties living out of a Volkswagen van. The young people, two male and two female, gave their names as 'Arion', 'Frodo', 'Sara-marias', and 'Oceana', all of which are believed to be aliases.

"While the four did not resist arrest, they were sullen and unresponsive to questioning, even belligerent at times. The girl 'Oceana' did not speak at all, while 'Sara-marias' was openly disrespectful. Officers found quantities of marijuana, hashish, LSD and heroin in the vehicle, and both young men appeared to be under the influence of narcotics. When asked what they were doing there, 'Sara-marias' told police 'they were devotees of the God under the Waves', and that 'Oceana was His bride, and would bear His child.'

"As the four appeared to be suffering from parasites and malnutrition, they were conducted first to Mercy Hospital, where they were examined and treated for dehydration and sand-fleas. The examining physician, Doctor Satterfield, reported that both girls were underage, approximately fourteen to sixteen years old, and that 'Oceana' was indeed pregnant. He further estimated the ages of 'Arion' and 'Frodo' as approximately eighteen to twenty-two. The two young men were then taken to the county jail to await positive identification while the girls were remanded into the care of the sisters at the Mary Magdalene Shelter for Women."

"Sara-marias—Sara M." Claire made the connection. "So that was how they wound up in the Shelter. Vagrancy and delinquency."

"Uh-huh. And look at the photograph." Rachel handed over a page of print out.

It wasn't a good image any more—between microfilm and copy machine and scanners, it had to be at least third generation. There were no shades of grey; it was all black and white. The young men were shaggy haired and nondescript—but both young women had long, straight dark hair which parted in the middle. Either of them could have been a teenaged Samara.

"My God..." Claire said, taking the page. "Even if it was the 'in' hairstyle back then, still..."

"Can I see?" asked Drew. Claire shared the picture. "Okay. That's just...spooky. So Oceana is presumably Evelyn, Samara's mother. What happened to the young men?"

"They faced a whole stack of criminal charges," Rachel replied. "Then when the authorities found out who they were, both of them turned out to be evading the draft. The girls never were identified--or at least 'Oceana' never was. Sara-marias wouldn't talk, and Oceana either wouldn't or couldn't. Since they were minors and there wasn't an appropriate alternative, the judge decided they should stay where they were."

"It was a different world back then." Drew mused. "No computer databases, no 'Amber Alert', no milk cartons with missing children on the sides. And people had different attitudes toward runaways. Their families might not have been looking for their daughters very hard--especially if the girls had been wayward or troublesome before."

"Sara-marias sounds as though she would have been a troublemaker." Claire squinted at the page. "Oceana looks blitzed. Sara looks stubborn. And she was the one who was knocked out over her laundry tub and left to drown."

"Yes." Rachel shifted papers around. "In December of 1969, Sara M.'s uncle was traveling on business and stopped at a gas station. The station bulletin board had a poster with the two girls' pictures, saying, 'Do you know these girls?' He called the sheriff's office and identified her enough to be allowed to go to the Magdalene Shelter and talk to her. They wouldn't release her right into his custody that day--paperwork and all. That was on a Friday. On Monday he went back for her, and she was dead."

* * *

Hey! Thanks to Anne Woodbury, Casa Bonita, Vampyro, Hopeless-EO-Shipper, Shadowsonicstar, and MimiB.Real. And thanks so much for the shout out of encouragement (You know who you are!) 


	36. In which The Author Admits Defeat

Okay. Here's my problem. I am bogged down in this story, and there is no light up at the top of the well shaft. Complete darkness. I tried to do too much. I am sorry. I am very, very sorry, and frustrated.

But I still want to write about Samara. In fact there is a whole mostly new story about her percolating in my head, and it's all OverTheMoon2139's fault. (Darn you, OverTheMoon!) She was the one who mentioned that Claire and Drew were a bit like Detectives Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler of Law & Order: SVU. Believe it or not, I'd never seen a single episode of that show, but she inspired me to try it. Now I'm half-way through the fourth season and hooked.

I want to write a Ring/L&O:SVU crossover. I would post it under the Law and Order category because there are over 5000 more SVU stories than there are Ring stories, which means a lot more people would see it. It would be shorter than Simple Gifts, ( I hope) but it would use some of the same points I made in how Samara was treated. It would take place in modern day New York, when Dr. Judith Weiss finally gets together the courage to go the detectives of SVU and report that in less than forty-eight hours, seven year old Samara Morgan is scheduled to have part of her brain cut out—and that her parents may also be abusing and neglecting her. Don't worry, Samara would still be Samara. Judith would have some things in common with Claire, but wouldn't be identical.

Would you be willing to read it?

J.

Also, check out my updated profile. I added a pic I found on 'Icanhazcheezburger'. Just call her...Sadakat. Or Sammiekitteh.


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